After the Glitter Fades
by Vivi Dahlin
Summary: Four years after graduation, Rachel & Santana have made it to NYC. One's a singing waitress, the other an exotic dancer. Reunited by chance, they form a quick and unexpected bond that changes their lives drastically.
1. Prologue: One Fine Star Away

**Title: **After the Glitter Fades  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Four years after graduation, Rachel and Santana have made it to New York City. One is a singing waitress, the other an exotic dancer. Reunited by chance, they form a quick and unexpected bond that changes their lives drastically. Rated M for language and strong sexual content.  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I'm told they belong to Ryan Murphy. Not that he has any idea what to do with them.  
><strong>AN: **This story is dedicated to Diet Mt. Dew for keeping me awake all-hours so that I could write it. And also, to Naya Rivera's smokin' hot body and keen fashion sense, which provided endless inspiration throughout the writing process. (But on a more serious note, I started this fic at the beginning of summer and recently completed it. So, it is finished, but I'm still in the revision process and will be posting the chapters as I get them spruced up. I'll warn you now, there are two love scenes in later chapters. If that's not your cup of tea, or if you're too young to be reading them, turn back now. Otherwise, I'll leave you to the ladies Pezberry. Oh, and reviews are much appreciated. :)

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><p><em>For me it's the only life that I've ever known<em>  
><em>And love is only one fine star away<em>  
><em>Even though the living is sometimes laced with lies<em>  
><em>It's all right<em>  
><em>The feeling remains even after the glitter fades<em>

- Stevie Nicks, "After the Glitter Fades"

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><p><strong>PROLOGUE: One Fine Star Away<strong>

The brownish sludge pouring into the sink looked like dregs from a bowl of beef stew. Gagging at the thought, Rachel hastily spat toothpaste into the rusty basin and alternated cranking the hot and cold knobs with all her might until the spigot was off. She inhaled sharply as the strain of turning the ancient fixtures created a brief but intense ache through her entire forearm. Massaging her wrist she cast a dejected glance over the bathroom as a whole, from chipped linoleum to walls stained with what she hoped was only water damage. The room bore a strong resemblance to a crime scene. Had she the money for cable, or even a television, there would have been a strict no-_CSI_-reruns policy for Miss Rachel Berry.

When an outline on the tattered shower curtain began to look a little too much like a human figure, she grabbed the cup that held her toothbrush, flicked off the light switch and stepped into the dim hallway in one quick and practiced motion, tugging the bathroom door shut behind her. Relief to find the hall empty soon became trepidation at being alone. With the longest strides her short legs could manage, she hurried to the door marked 5B and slipped inside. She listened for each of the four locks to click into place as she secured herself inside the apartment. Once the final safeguard—a chair with a hole instead of a wicker seat—was propped between floorboards and doorknob, she relaxed.

_Home sweet home._

"Make that 'closet sweet closet,'" she said, turning to face the sparse living quarters.

Her queen-size mattress, the main piece of furniture in the room, took up most of the available floor space. Ages ago she had pawned her bed frame, a luxury which made for an even tighter squeeze, and simply stacked the mattress on top of its box springs in the farthest corner. Crossing to it in three small steps, she flopped down onto rumpled floral sheets and placed her cup and toothbrush atop the closed lid of the nearby trunk that served as nightstand and dresser.

She straightened the collection of Playbills that occupied one side of the oak lid, then swept her hand across them, gathering several dollar bills and change into her awaiting palm. Dismissing thoughts of filth and germs, she began counting the money and arranging it in piles of ones, fives and tens. To naysayers who might claim she could just as easily wait tables in Ohio, she would have pointed out that a week's worth of tips from the finest establishment in Lima didn't add up to what she earned in a single night at a grungy little New York City dive.

But in order to make that argument someone would have to know the truth about her glorious career in the Big Apple. They would have to know that three years' intensive training at The American Academy of Dramatic Arts, whose alumni included Lauren Bacall and Kirk Douglas, led not to overnight success but to an endless stream of auditions and a handful of minor roles in Off-Off-Broadway productions that were as forgettable as their two week runs. Rather than originating characters on stage, she used her imagination to put a creative spin on the stories she did call home with. The 1950s-themed diner where she worked transformed into a retro playhouse; the singing wait staff were members of the chorus; the advances of a lecherous busboy became a natural rapport with her leading man; and rude customers served as the hecklers in an otherwise adoring audience.

Rachel looked up at the three framed photographs that decorated a nook in the wall opposite her bed. Her fathers smiled out at her from a family portrait snapped by a compliant passerby on the day of high school graduation. Both men looked so proud. And there she stood between them, beaming in cap and gown, eternally hopeful. She didn't doubt her dads' love, but in moments like the one isolated by that silver frame, she felt that their approval hinged on her successes alone. Even as a child she sensed their disappointment when she didn't excel at certain tasks, whether it be dance class or piano lessons. She owed every bit of her tenacity and determination to them, and she would always be grateful. But refusal to admit defeat also meant she seldom spoke of her hardships or asked for help. And returning home was not an option.

Her gaze drifted to the other photograph, a candid shot of the William McKinley High glee club. Many of her fondest memories, and a few of her worst, included the faces captured in that blurry 5X7. She hadn't seen the majority of them in years. Though she did keep in touch with Mercedes and Kurt, both were busy pursuing their own careers. She looked forward to someday seeing them plastered across the covers at the magazine stand she passed each morning. Just as long as she made it there first.

She lingered on the tall, brown-haired boy in his letterman jacket, a blonde beauty at his side. Then, as if caught staring, she quickly diverted her eyes and focused on the last and largest in the trio of pictures—a glossy headshot of Barbra Streisand. More than any of the others, this photo kept Rachel's spirits up. She felt a renewed sense of purpose almost every time she looked at it.

Stuffing the coins and roll of cash into a pair of shoes she used as a bank, she double-checked that the baseball bat next to her bed was within reach. Satisfied, she pulled a cord that dangled from the ceiling, extinguishing the room's solitary bulb. Thin curtains did a poor job of blocking the bright city lights outside her window, but she liked it that way. She could just make out Streisand's distinctive profile in the dark.

"Goodnight, Babs," she murmured, already half asleep.

* * *

><p>His exposed penis bobbled obscenely as he pushed her face towards it, the car's leather upholstery squeaking under his bare buttocks. Santana's stomach churned at the sight of protruding veins and flesh the color of raw salmon. She wanted to breathe through her mouth to avoid inhaling his scent, but that required parted lips. She kept them firmly closed until he wrenched at her hair.<p>

"Quit fucking around," he said, knuckles pressing into her scalp as his grip tightened.

A smartass retort came to mind, but Santana thought better of it. She preferred to get this over with as soon as possible, collect her fee and never glance back at the posh car with its middle-aged occupant and floor mats that needed vacuuming. Grit dug into her knees whenever she shifted, and the heels of her six-inch stilettos kept getting wedged in the front seat underpinnings. She concentrated on the hot, abrasive pain and on minimal movements. Instead of the erection in her hands, she looked at her fingernails, noting that their chipped red polish could use a touch-up. As the man began to moan, she blocked out the terms of endearment laced with profanity and tried to remember the last time someone had stroked her hair so tenderly. It almost felt nice.

Touch was one of the few things not in short supply for her these days. Working as an exotic dancer in a gentlemen's club, she had been patted, pinched, groped, squeezed and rubbed up against more times than she could count. And not just by the gentlemen. Congratulatory slaps on the ass were common practice among her fellow dancers after a routine worked the crowd into a frenzy. Though most were friendly, some were delivered with a hint of malice. It never failed to amuse her how much the camaraderie and rivalry between strippers mirrored that of cheerleaders. She was often tempted to phone up her old Cheerios coach, Sue Sylvester, and thank the woman for preparing her to deal with such catty behavior, but she hadn't spoken to anyone from her hometown since leaving it four years ago.

Living as a closeted lesbian in Lima, Ohio, wasn't easy. Coming out made it even worse. She had spent her senior year of high school as a nomad, drifting from one friend's house to the next after continuous arguments with her parents about her sexuality became unbearable. Any hopes at a relationship with Brittany had withered when the Pierces, suddenly uncomfortable with the intimacy level between their daughter and her longtime best friend, banned Santana from their home. The girls' post-graduation plans to ditch Lima and relocate to Columbus, where they would find jobs, attend Ohio State University and share an apartment, quickly dissolved thereafter. The thought of being alone in Columbus, a city chosen for its nearness to family and friends—neither of which she had anymore—was too painful for Santana. Her sights set on someplace bigger, farther away and more promising than anything Ohio had to offer, she wound up in New York City. She wound up in New York City, in the alley behind a strip joint, giving head to a complete stranger while he fondled her tits and called her "sweet thing."

It didn't take long to make the guy come. He was noisy and messy, and she jerked the backdoor wide open to expel a mouthful of semen and saliva the minute it was over. When she glanced up, wiping more of him off her lips with the back of her hand, he looked incredulous. And pissed.

"Four hundred," she said, palm extended.

"Christ," he muttered in disgust, fishing a wallet from the pants around his ankles. He leafed through the bills inside, pulled out four and held them up for her to see before tossing them down next to the spot of moisture that darkened the ground. "Three-fifty."

"Bullshit," she said, hurrying to latch her bra. She shoved his legs aside and leaned halfway from the car to retrieve the money. "We agreed on four hundred."

"That was if you were worth it," he said, catching her around the waist and forcing her out of the vehicle altogether. With a sharp cry, she dropped against the asphalt on hands and knees. Adrenaline surging, she immediately clambered to her feet, teetering for a moment on spiked heels; she flew at him as he stepped from the car to zip his pants and slip into the driver's seat. One of her fists drooped lamely at the wrist, so she pummeled him with the other. He fended off the blows with little effort and brought the match to an abrupt end by punching her in the face.

Santana hit the ground hard again, but this time she stayed down. Supine and struggling to remain conscious, she heard the man call her a dumb little twat—among other things. She flinched when he wadded her lacy black shirt into a ball and threw it out the window, hitting her square in the chest. _Now_ the bastard developed good aim.

"Next time, swallow," he said, revving the engine of his silver Bentley. The taillights gleamed like a pair of harsh red eyes as he sped off into the night.

"Goddamn prick!" she hollered, voice ineffectual and raspy. Propped on both elbows, she made a failed attempt at sitting up, swore and tried again. Eventually, she heaved herself upright, left arm clutched to her side because it hurt too much to use. She collected her shirt and the money that had gotten wet and sticky in the scuffle. "Your fucking cock tastes like mildew, anyway," she said, spitting for emphasis as she wiped the bills on her already soiled skirt, then folded and tucked them into her cleavage.

So went Santana's first encounter with a john.

Hooking was frowned upon at the club where she worked, but a few of the dancers did it for the extra cash. She considered those girls sleazy and pathetic; however, until two months ago, she had been making the rent and eating on a regular basis. Then her co-worker and roommate, Veronica, reconciled with an abusive ex and moved back to New Jersey. Without their combined salaries, Santana could no longer afford the small but cozy apartment with a killer view. As if repeating her final year of high school, she found herself living out of a duffel bag, crashing on a different friend's couch every night. She had overstayed her last welcome and discovered her belongings on the front stoop when she came home tipsy at 3AM.

To her, living on the streets was more reprehensible than working them. When the man with the Bentley approached her at the club, his wallet bulging almost as much as his crotch, she had let desperation and fear get the better of her. Now she was one of those sleazy, pathetic girls.

At least she had three hundred and fifty bucks to show for it.

She hobbled to the rear exit of Eden's Gate—her place of employment and current residence—thankful to see the door still ajar. It opened from the inside only, so she used various objects to prevent it from closing and locking her out. Tonight a pair of knotted pantyhose had done the trick. Checking that the hallway was empty, she removed her heels and padded into the nearest dressing room. All the other girls were gone for the evening and backstage security was lax, but she remained careful nonetheless. Getting fired for being a squatter would be the final humiliating nail in the coffin.

Groping through the dark, she located a lighted makeup mirror on the wall-length vanity and switched it to the dimmest setting. Anything brighter chanced drawing attention, but she didn't think her eye could stand the glare of overhead lights, either. The tender lids were swollen into a mere slit, moisture trickling from the corner. Without even looking in the mirror she knew the john had given her a nasty black eye. Still, she held her breath and glanced up.

"_Dios mío_," she said, the air leaving her lungs with a soft whoosh. She steadied herself on a nearby chair back and stared at the puffy, unrecognizable face reflected back at her. Slumping heavily into the seat, she hung her head and wrestled with an onslaught of emotion, the predominant one being disgust at what her life had become. On top of everything else, she was now ugly. Bitter tears dripped onto the countertop in front of her, forming minuscule puddles in the layer of cosmetic dust that covered it. She watched them for a long time, fighting an inner battle she knew she would lose.

Reaching for the bottom drawer she had claimed as her own after just a week on the job, she brought out another mirror, this one the size of a Post-it. Next, she retrieved the tiny vial of cocaine she had promised herself not to finish off. Despite trembling hands, she sprinkled the white powder precisely along the glass surface and cut it into two neat lines with the tip of a fingernail file. From between her breasts she plucked a hundred dollar bill, rolled it and snorted both lines in quick succession.

Snuffling and rubbing her nose, she leaned back in the chair and waited for the tension and self-loathing to melt away. It did so as if by magic, and fifteen minutes later she barely noticed any aches or pains at all. If she didn't look at her reflection, the incident in the alley seemed almost humorous. She even began to wonder why prostitution hadn't occurred to her sooner.

Whether or not Santana intended to use it, having the new, alternative source of income comforted her. She buried the empty vial and mirror deep in the drawer, spent another twenty minutes tidying up the room, then made her way to a curtained-off section that housed props and skimpy costumes. Peeling off her tight skirt, she tossed it in the corner wastebasket along with her wrinkled top, then spread out the thick padding which served as a pre-show yoga mat to the other girls and as a bedroll to her. Clad in bra and panties, she wrapped up with the patchwork quilt that had been a _quinceañera _gift from her grandmother. She drifted to sleep planning for tomorrow and the spacious apartment she would someday call home.


	2. Little Lies

**A/N: **Thank you to those who reviewed the prologue. Don't worry, the chapters are longer from here on out. Also, I know Rachel's vegan on the show, but I made her... not vegan for this story. She would be horrified, I'm sure, so let's just keep this between us.

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><p><em>Tell me lies<em>  
><em>Tell me sweet little lies<em>  
><em>(Tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies)<em>  
><em>Oh, no, no you can't disguise<em>  
><em>(You can't disguise, no you can't disguise)<em>

- Fleetwood Mac, "Little Lies" (Christine McVie)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 1: Little Lies<br>**

"Can you take this coffee to table five for me?" A leggy girl in penny loafers and denim capris, her red hair twisted into Pippi Longstocking braids, thrust a tray at Rachel and confided in a whisper, "I really need to pee."

Rachel stepped back to avoid colliding with the steaming cup and saucer as she rounded the counter, eager to wrap up the last few minutes of a grueling shift. Her shoulders sagged as she reached for the tray and forced a tight smile. "Sure, Hailey."

"Thanks, Rach. I owe you."

"You sure do," Rachel said through gritted teeth as she spun on the heel of her black and white saddle shoe, marching into the crowded dining room. For some reason a significant part of the New York population had a hankering to eat at Kenickie's Diner today. Between the nonstop food orders and the song requests, there hadn't been a single opportunity to rest since breakfast.

She approached the booth where a slender brunette sat gazing out the window at afternoon traffic. Something familiar about the customer, whose exotic beauty seemed out of place in this greasy spoon of a restaurant, made Rachel pause as she set the coffee on the table and said, "Here you go, miss." Large sunglasses prevented her from identifying the face wearing them, but she had definitely seen the woman before. A celebrity, perhaps. They did wander in from time to time. Most of the servers were indifferent, but Rachel still felt a thrill of excitement when it happened. She hoped to never become desensitized to fame. "Anything else I can get you?"

"No. Thank you."

Though the woman barely acknowledged her, Rachel recognized the voice and movements. "Santana?" she said in disbelief.

The woman's head snapped up and Rachel knew she had guessed correctly. She could also tell by the silence that Santana had no clue who stood before her. Rachel took no offense, attributing it to the bobbysoxer ensemble which—petite frame and doe-eyed features aside—downplayed the maturity she had attained in recent years. She balanced the serving tray against her hip and smiled broadly. "It's Rachel. Rachel Berry."

"Oh, my God," said Santana, the revelation prompting her to take off the sunglasses for a better look. "It is you. I thought I'd seen that sweater set before."

Rachel glanced down at the fuzzy pink material and giggled. She couldn't deny wearing similar tops in the past, but at least the poodle skirt and frilly ankle socks were a change. More or less. She started to say as much, then hesitated as she glimpsed the faint discoloration that surrounded Santana's eye, the bridge of her nose and part of the other eye. The purple and yellow splotches looked like phantoms of a much worse bruise. When Santana casually slid the sunglasses back on, Rachel realized she was staring.

"How long's it been?" she blurted, trying to cover the awkwardness. "Four years?"

Santana nodded, her mood difficult to gauge behind dark frames. "A little over, yeah. You fled Lima like a bat out of hell right after graduation, as I recall."

"Pretty much. I heard you left a couple months later, but I had no idea you were in the city."

"Probably because I didn't tell anyone where I was going." Santana lifted the old-fashioned sugar dispenser, cringed and set it down heavily, glass hitting the table with a thunk. She picked it up again with the opposite hand and poured a steady stream of granules into her coffee, then stirred the fragrant liquid with a spoon, still using what obviously wasn't her dominant hand.

A sick feeling settled into the pit of Rachel's stomach as she pretended not to notice the bruised and misshapen wrist Santana eased from view. "Not even your parents?" she ventured, trying to sound conversational rather than nosy.

"Last time I talked to my parents they called me an abomination," Santana said, tapping the spoon on the rim of her cup before taking a slow, measured sip. "I doubt they're putting up fliers."

The flat tone warned Rachel that the topic wasn't open for discussion. It didn't surprise her. She remembered well the malicious gossip and taunting that led to Santana disclosing her true sexuality; the criticism and shunning that followed hadn't been exclusive to William McKinley High School. Though their friendship was volatile at best and didn't exist outside of glee club, Santana had shown up more than once, a tear-stained refugee, on the Berry household doorstep that final semester. The immediate sympathy her fathers felt towards the girl hadn't come so readily to Rachel. But she began to understand that Santana's crueler side stemmed from deep insecurity, and any traces of a grudge had long since been discarded.

"So... what have you been up to?" she said with genuine interest.

"Oh, you know. Living the dream." Santana gestured out the window at the hustle and bustle. She fiddled with her spoon, the coffee cup and the edge of her napkin before adding, "What about you? Figured you'd be all over some huge marquee by now."

Rachel blushed and gazed down, suddenly hating her stupid work costume with a passion. She looked like a reject from _Grease_, while Santana sat there exuding cool in head to toe black, the Rizzo to her Sandy. Or worse yet: Jan. Adding insult to injury, loud music blared from speakers affixed to the ceiling in every corner of the diner, a cue for each available waitperson to gather for the next musical number.

"Well, you're in for a treat," Rachel said, pointing at the row of bar stools where an assortment of Elvises, Marilyn Monroes and random teenyboppers were lining up. "Because you're about to see me put on _the_ best show in town. Don't go anywhere, okay? I'll be back in a jiff."

Santana appeared to be restraining a grin—without much success. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Rushing to join the other performers, who were already belting the first verse of "Tutti Frutti" and hand-jiving like mad, Rachel heard Santana call out, "Break a leg, Berry."

xxx

When she returned ten minutes later, clocked out and wearing Nikes instead of saddle shoes, the booth Santana had occupied was empty except for the half-drained coffee cup being cleared from the table by Hailey. "What happened to the girl sitting here?" Rachel said, scanning the restaurant as she spoke.

"The Latina chick?" Hailey asked, popping gum between her teeth.

"Yes, the Latina chick." Rachel craned her neck impatiently, unable to spot Santana's long dark hair and warm honey complexion among the patrons.

"You just missed her. Good tipper. Oh, and she left this."

Hailey handed over a sales receipt with a note jotted on the back in unsteady penmanship.

_Rachel —  
><em>

_Sorry, but I can't stay. Good seeing you again._

_S._

"Damn." Rachel returned the slip to Hailey and made a beeline for the double doors, squeezing her way through a group of exiting tourists who chuckled and snapped pictures. She got the same reaction daily while walking to and from work in her 1950's get-up. Sometimes she humored the gawkers and posed as if they were paparazzi; other times she just yelled at them to go back to Ohio or the like. Today she simply ignored them and stood on her tiptoes in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to see around the wall of bodies and heads that forever blocked her path in the midst of a crowd. When two men in business suits parted ways to avoid trampling her, she caught sight of Santana a few yards ahead, stride confident and brisk in knee-high leather boots.

"Santana!" Rachel scurried to catch up, shouting the name twice more and getting no response. The girl was either hard of hearing or pretending to be oblivious.

Rachel knew the likely option, but she jogged up to Santana and cut her off, forcing herself to be noticed.

"Jesus," said Santana, stopping short and heaving a sigh. "Can't you take a hint?"

Struggling to get by in an often ruthless city demanded thick skin, and Rachel was adapting well. The harsh remark would have stung in the past, but now it barely fazed her. She urged Santana towards a bench, away from the flow of foot traffic. "You don't want to talk to me, I get it. But I think you should. I can see that something's wrong."

"What the hell do you know about it?" Santana snapped, an imposing figure with her superior height and her hands planted on both hips.

"I know you're hiding bruises behind those sunglasses," Rachel said, in as hushed a voice as the noisy traffic allowed. "And it looks to me like your wrist is broken."

Santana's lips formed a thin, hard line. It was difficult to tell if the flush on her cheeks was anger or embarrassment. "Wow, that MD of yours is mighty impressive," she said, and hitched a thumb in the direction of Kenickie's. "Guess _American Bandstand _is just a side gig?"

"Yeah, my career hasn't exactly gone according to plan. I'll be the first to admit it. But I'm not the one who looks like they were used as a punching bag here. Let me help you." Rachel placed a cautious hand on Santana's arm, only to have it shrugged off as the girl sank down to the wooden bench.

"My life is fucked. How are you possibly going to help me?"

Good question. Rachel took a seat beside Santana, careful not to invade her space, and pondered the answer. She didn't want the door that was creaking slowly open to get slammed in her face. "I could start by lending an ear. Even with all these people and distractions, New York can be a lonely place. There's been plenty of times I wished I had somebody to vent to."

"What happened to Kurt? You guys were on your way to being the next Will and Grace last I heard."

"We still talk on the phone and meet up for lunch once in awhile," Rachel said, a bit wistful. Only on rare occasions did her schedule align with Kurt's. Their communication mainly consisted of texts and Twitter, where his random and witty status updates always provided a good laugh. "I was kind of a third wheel with him and Blaine. They're writing a show together at the moment. Very hush-hush."

Santana mimicked zipping her mouth closed. Hesitantly, she removed her sunglasses and folded them in her lap. "I'm not being used as a punching bag," she said, failing to make eye contact. When she did look up, her dark eyes gleamed like amber in the sunlight. "I— I got mugged. The guy grabbed me and when I tried to fight back he clocked me."

The story was plausible, especially given Santana's history of never backing down, even when outmatched. Rachel searched the girl's expressions for signs of dishonesty, but they were hard to read. Keeping in mind that Santana had also been a skilled liar, she asked, "Did you go to the hospital?"

"For a black eye?"

"For your wrist."

Santana shook her head, then crossed her legs and bounced her foot in agitation.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have health insurance. I can't afford to run to the emergency room for every little booboo. I can barely afford food. I lost my apartment when my roommate moved and now I'm stuck in a shitty neighborhood, which is why I've been walking around this damn city for the past three days trying to find a building that isn't a rat hole or so expensive I'd have to sign over my firstborn to pay for it." Santana paused just long enough for air. "I don't even know where the fuck I am. I got turned around and ended up in that diner because it looked like a place you could get a cheap coffee. I needed caffeine so I'd have the energy to haul my ass back across town."

Rachel listened intently to the spiel, its volume increasing right up to the final breathless note, and she believed that every word of it was true. "Wow," she said, after a lengthy silence. "Sucks to be you, huh?"

"No shit."

Leaning over, Rachel gave Santana's shoulder a gentle, playful nudge and received a light one in return. "Feel better?"

"Not really, no," Santana said, but a small laugh followed.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I've got my share of financial woes. Why else would I be wearing this?" Rachel lifted the hem of her wide skirt, displaying its colorful poodle appliqué.

Santana quirked a perfectly sculpted, sable eyebrow. "I just assumed your fashion sense had devolved since high school," she said with a devilish smile. "If such a feat is possible."

"Walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Yup."

Rachel laughed off the barb, detecting no actual meanness in it. Besides, for the first time since Santana showed up in the booth at Kenickie's, she resembled her teenage self—the sassy cheerleader who ruled the halls of McKinley High—rather than a jaded young woman with far too many secrets. "I blame the stores. You just can't find good knee socks in Lima."

"Or much of anything else." Santana nibbled thoughtfully at her bottom lip for a moment. "You ever hear from the others back home?"

It was a valiant attempt at sounding offhanded. Rachel played along, though she knew there was really only one person Santana would be curious enough to ask after. "Mercedes and I talk a lot, so I've gotten an earful of the scoop she gets from Tina. Who is married to Mike now. They have, like, 20 kids."

"Of course."

"Let's see. Sam and Artie are basically taking over Bob's Music. They've got a band and they give free guitar lessons to kids from low income housing. Puck works at Kewpee and still 'cleans pools' during the summer. And apparently Lauren is a bouncer at Alibi Lounge."

"I can see that." Santana nodded.

"Mercedes is in Cleveland trying to get a record deal. I told her to audition for _American Idol_, but she says that's selling out." Rachel tapped her chin with her index finger. "Oh, and Brittany. I hear she's the most requested instructor at Anytime Fitness. She teaches aerobics and dance. Sounds like she's doing quite well for herself."

An appreciative look flitted over Santana's face, and then, a second later, it was gone. She cleared her throat softly and said, "You left out Finn and Quinn."

Rachel gazed out at the busy streets and massive buildings, tracing their outlines with her eyes. She didn't dwell on her final break-up with Finn Hudson much anymore. Ultimately, she knew it was for the best. But sometimes she still had to take in the city and let it overwhelm her, to feel embraced by her true love so that the loss of puppy love didn't fill her with regret. "They're engaged to be married. Quinn's expecting in the fall."

"Oh. Well. At least she'll get fat again." Santana joined in on surveying the city. "And then there's us," she said after awhile. "The sheep who wandered from the fold."

Surprised by the Biblical reference, Rachel turned and observed Santana's profile while it was pensive and unguarded. She felt a pang of sadness and realized she didn't want to lose track of this girl again. Acting on impulse, though she knew it might backfire, she said, "Maybe we sheep should stick together, then."

"Hm?"

"Why not come stay with me for a while? I'm in a semi-decent area. My building's an old rust bucket, but it's livable. Haven't seen any rats."

Santana blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Rachel said, glad that she hadn't been flat-out rejected. "It'll give you a chance to regroup, straighten some things out. I won't lie—we'll be crammed in there like sardines. There's only room for one bed, but if you don't mind sharing, we can make do. And if you want, we could pool our resources. Where do you work?"

"I— wait, won't your landlord have something to say about me just moving in?"

"She's ancient and only opens her door to get the newspaper. I doubt she'll notice."

"We might end up hating each other."

"Because that's something we've never done before."

"True dat," Santana said, absently twisting a lock of hair around her finger over and over. If she had a reason not to agree, she wasn't finding it. "If you're sure about this..."

"Positive." Rachel decided a celebratory hug would be pushing her luck. She beamed at her new roommate until another thought occurred to her. "Um, you don't have any furniture, do you?"

xxx

The neon sign depicting a voluptuous woman taking a bite out of an apple glowed faintly in the hazy light of sunset. With each sequence of blinks, her hand brought the fruit closer to hot pink lips, until a hunk of it disappeared, the jagged lines of teeth marks in its place. She repeated the motion ceaselessly as Rachel read the flashing bulbs that spelled out "Eden's Gate" one letter at a time.

"What is this place?" she said, dread already nagging at her.

"My work." Despite getting ready to enter the building, Santana moved the sunglasses perched on her head back into place on her nose. She flashed a wry smile at Rachel's hesitation to follow. "You asked what I do."

"I thought we were going to get your stuff."

"All my stuff is here. I change before and after work, so it's just easier to leave it here."

Rachel allowed Santana to lead her by the hand through the maze of red velvet ropes set up for a queue yet to arrive in the early evening hour. She squinted as they passed through the front door into an ambience of fuchsia lighting and provocative music. "Are you a bartender or something?"

"Not quite." Santana glanced over her shoulder to add, "I'm a dancer."

"You mean—" Trailing behind Santana into the main section of the club, Rachel got an eyeful of what it meant. On the other side of the room, like a bright coastline visible beyond a sea of tables, footlights shone on the catwalk where a blonde in a G-string and platforms danced seductively in front of a small, attentive group of men. Mouth agape, she stared at the topless woman for several seconds before hearing Santana giggle and confirm:

"A stripper? Yes, Gidget."

Looking away from the surreal scene took effort, but Rachel hurriedly did so when Santana, emanating heady perfume, leaned in to murmur, "Would you like to get closer?"

Rachel shivered at the tickle of breath on her ear. "No, I'm good," she said, chiffon scarf and ponytail twitching as she shook her head.

Santana smirked, but didn't comment. Instead, she released Rachel's hand and spread her arms to intercept a hug from the large black man barreling towards them. "Eddie!" she squealed as he lifted her feet off the ground with ease.

"Hey, baby doll! Where you been at?" Eddie set her down gently and stood back grinning. "Been forever since I seen you in here shakin' that fine little ass."

"It's only been three days," Santana said, giving his muscular arm a light swat. "And my ass gets tired. I needs me a vacation."

"Well, unless you want that vacation permanent, you best get your shit together. The boss man ain't happy his star attraction is MIA." Though Eddie spoke gravely, his expression was kind, and it lit up as he noticed Rachel. "Who's this?"

Rachel smiled nervously and took a step forward, her hand outstretched, as Santana placed a palm at the small of her back and said, "Eddie, this is Rachel. We've known each other since we were kids. Rachel, this is Eddie. He's supposed to be our big, scary bouncer, but he's really just a teddy bear."

"Now, don't be giving away my secrets to Miss Rachel," he said, winking as he turned her hand over and kissed the back.

"I won't tell," Rachel said, blushing as the words left her mouth. His rakish charm made her feel like a schoolgirl. It didn't help that he raised her arm, encouraging her to twirl and give a 360° view of the outfit she wore.

"She a recruit?" he asked Santana. "'Cause the guys'll go for this baby face, but you got to get the girl some new attire."

"Oh, I'm not here for a job," Rachel said hastily. "I already have one. That's why I'm wearing this. I just came with Santana to get her—"

"Extensions," Santana interrupted, guiding Rachel away by the arm. "We're getting our party on tonight, and I gots to be able to whip this hair. Later, Ed."

Waving farewell to the man, Rachel gazed around in astonishment as she was dragged past the bar with its bikini-clad waitresses—many of them called, "_Mamacita_!" and blew kisses to Santana, who returned them and kept going—and through a doorway that led to a hall with stark fluorescent lighting and several more doors. It was not unlike the backstage of a theatre, and when they entered one of the rooms, Rachel found that it was indeed a dressing room. Much more in her element, she relaxed. The surroundings had an opposite effect on Santana; she whirled about like a dervish, opening and closing drawers, collecting items as she remembered them, and stuffing them into a bulky duffel.

"Why did you lie to him?"

"Because the guy who owns this place is an asshole," Santana said, just audible over the throbbing bass from inside the club. "If he finds out I've been stashing all my junk here, he'd have no problem firing me."

With each new explanation, it became apparent that Santana's troubles went far deeper than she was letting on.

"Would that be so terrible?" Rachel asked, unable to hide her disapproval. "I mean, you could look for another job, Santana. There has to be something better than stripping."

The flurry of activity screeched to a halt, along with the zipper Santana was wrestling closed. Her bag thumped to the floor. "Well, Rachel, not all of us got invited to the sock hop. And if you must know, I tried other things like waitressing, but I kept getting fired because I don't take people's shit." She enunciated the last few words, getting her message across loud and clear. "I'm not qualified to do anything, but I'm really good at making guys jizz themselves just by taking my clothes off. If that makes me a skank, fine. If you don't want me in your apartment, fine. But you're the one who said I'd end up working on a pole someday, so don't get all self-righteous on me now."

Rachel instantly remembered the prediction, since it was one of the rare moments she had lashed out at Santana during their glee club days. At the time she didn't believe it made an impact, but having the memory hurled back at her with such intensity told her the words were taken with much more than a grain of salt. "I'm sorry. That was really thoughtless of me. Then and now," she said, moving over to shoulder the duffel bag and save Santana from lugging it with one hand. "I still want you to stay and I don't think you're a skank. I just think you have more to offer than you realize."

Santana's posture relaxed and she helped with the strap as Rachel tried to untwist it. "Yeah, well... don't sweat it," she said, ushering them out of the dressing room and towards a door that opened onto the alley behind Eden's Gate. "You weren't the only one who expected me to end up like this. You were just the one with the guts to say it to my face."

"Or the one stupid enough to try," Rachel offered, taking the lead this time as they prepared for the trek to her apartment. "You know, if you really think about it, what you do isn't that different from what I do. We're both entertainers who pander to a hungry crowd."

"You're right." Then, in a gruff and teasing voice, Santana added, "You dirty little whore."

xxx

When they arrived at the apartment half an hour later, Santana walked directly to the mattress and executed a belly flop. "Bed," she moaned. Rachel laid the girl's belongings aside and joined in, sprawling flat on her back and kicking off her tennis shoes.

"You want the grand tour?"

"Huh-uh."

"It won't take long." Rachel prodded Santana's leg with her big toe.

Santana groaned again, but rolled onto her side and propped her head up for a look around.

"Kitchenette," Rachel said, pointing towards the tiny offshoot of space with a handful of cupboards, a miniature fridge and a convection oven. She made a broad gesture, indicating the bed and area around it. "Living room, dining room and master bedroom."

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Santana wiped an imaginary tear from her cheek, then glanced from one wall to the next. "Uh, where's the bathroom?"

"Oh." Sheepishly, Rachel inclined her head towards the door to the hall. "About that."

"Berry..."

"It's communal. But there's a couple of them on this floor, and the other tenants are good about sharing."

Santana rubbed her eyes and yawned, too worn out to be very annoyed. "Since you're just springing this on me, I call dibs on the shower in the morning."

"Fair enough," Rachel agreed. "Tomorrow's my day off, anyway. I will use the bathroom now, though, unless you need it?"

Santana had curled into a ball and appeared to be asleep, head cradled in the crook of her arm. Exhausted and envious, Rachel wondered if her devotion to dental hygiene could be put on hold for one night. The residual taste of hot dog—the dinner she and Santana had settled for when they passed a vendor on their way home—told her she could not. Forcing herself up, she gathered her toothbrush, floss and tube of Crest, and crept from the room. While she brushed her teeth in front of the dingy mirror, she smiled at her reflection. She already enjoyed having a roommate. As trying as Santana might be, she was also sharp and assertive, qualities that gave Rachel a feeling of security. Having her in the apartment made fear of what lurked there or in the empty hallway seem silly. Emboldened, Rachel stepped from the bathroom and crossed over to her door without rushing. She fastened the locks behind her, but tonight she didn't bother with the chair.

Instead of finding Santana still on the bed, Rachel turned to see her rooting through the duffel bag, no longer dressed.

"Do you have a T-shirt or something I could borrow?" Santana said, without looking up. She retrieved the silky black undergarments strewn on the floor and crammed them in with the rest of her wadded up clothes. "I don't have any clean pajamas. Or pajamas, period."

The muscles in her toned legs flexed as she knelt on the floor, balancing on her toes. A hint of delicate shoulder blades and rib bones were visible each time she reached with long, lean arms. Two sparrows in flight were tattooed with skillful detail on her lower back, the curves of their wings drawing the eye even further down. Outside of magazines and movies, Rachel had never seen such a well-sculpted body. As if to prove its perfection, Santana stood and faced her, revealing ample breasts, a tight abdomen and nothing but the smoothest of skin.

"Um, sure, I should have something." Rachel went to her trunk and busied herself sifting through folded stacks of clothes until she came to a faded yellow T-shirt. "Hope you like SpongeBob," she said, holding out the top with the cartoon character's face on it. She grabbed shorts and a tank top, wishing she had thought to take them with her to the bathroom, and focused her attention on showing the least amount of skin while putting them on.

"Sorry. I'm used to changing in front of the other girls. Didn't mean to gross you out."

Rachel slipped off her skirt, the shorts already in place underneath it, and glanced up cautiously. "You didn't," she said as Santana freed her hair from the yellow collar, shaking it out in dark waves behind her. The shirt, a memento from Rachel's twelfth birthday celebration at Kings Island, had always been long on her, but its hem rested much higher on Santana's thighs. "I mean, you're gorgeous. Which makes changing in front of you kind of intimidating."

Santana raked a gaze over Rachel, who had yet to trade her sweater set for the tank top. She sat down on the bed with her head turned. "Gorgeous, huh?" she said, a smile evident in her voice.

"Well, yeah," Rachel said, muffled by the fabric covering her face as she quickly switched tops, undoing her bra from beneath the tank. She slid it off and tucked it into the pile of her work clothes. "You've been that way since junior high. Don't tell me you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, I noticed." Santana cast a sly look over her shoulder. "I just didn't know you had."

Unruffled by the suggestive overtones—that was Santana's way, after all—Rachel rounded the corner of the bed and sat across from her. "Everybody noticed. I think every girl in school wanted to be you at some point."

"Until I became a great big lesbo," Santana said, resting against the pillow at her back. "And then no one would touch me with a ten-foot pole."

Rachel couldn't disagree. Others' sexual preferences didn't matter to her in the least, but for some reason Santana being gay had caused an even bigger stir in Lima than Kurt's identical news. Perhaps Kurt fit people's stereotypes more than Santana did.

"Has that made things... weird for you here? Doing what you do," Rachel said, curiosity getting the better of her. The theatre community was rife with lesbians and gays, but she had no idea if the same could be said for exotic dance.

"Hell no. When guys find out, they think it's sexy as fuck. Of course, a lot of them also think I'll go straight for them if they try hard enough," Santana said, rolling her eyes. "But the women... mmm. You wouldn't believe the hot pieces of ass you can get when you're a lesbian and a stripper."

The crude remark and Santana's lascivious grin made Rachel giggle. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound, which was loud in the small apartment. "Are you seeing anybody right now?" she asked, regaining composure.

Santana shook her head and idly played with strands of her hair. "I was dating this girl named Robin for a while, but she turned into a psychotic bitch." She made a stabbing motion in the air, then poked Rachel lightly in the ribs with her forefinger. "What about you? Got a boy toy?"

"I dated a few guys in college, but it never really went anywhere. They were arrogant and I was more interested in learning monologues than talking to them. And lately I'm so busy—I can't remember the last time I went out with someone."

"Hm. I think Eddie's single. Maybe I should give him your number. Or better yet, you can give it to him when you come to the club tomorrow."

"I'm coming to the club tomorrow?" Rachel said, furrowing her brow.

"Yes. I need to get back to work now that this bruise is fading. And I got to see you in action today, so it's your turn to see me." Santana settled down into the bed and pulled the sheet up to her hips, preparing for sleep as if the matter were closed.

Rachel followed suit, plumping up a pillow beneath her head. "There's an audition tomorrow afternoon. I was planning on going to it."

"I'm not on till evening. You'll be there." Santana yawned and took the liberty of turning out the light. "Besides," she added, "it'll give you another chance to ogle me naked."


	3. Leather and Lace

**A/N: **Thanks for the lovely reviews, guys. They really do brighten my day and let me know I'm not making a total fool of myself (*knock wood*). I hope the story continues to please. ;) And I should probably mention that I, obviously, do not own the song lyrics included in this or any other chapter. They're just really, really great songs, all of which I highly recommend.

* * *

><p><em>Dreams unwind<em>  
><em>Love's a state of mind<em>

- Fleetwood Mac, "Rhiannon" (Stevie Nicks)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 2: Leather and Lace<strong>

Santana forced her eyelids apart and blinked several times, bringing the room into focus. She dreaded her daily routine—haul self off floor; stow all evidence of self from sight; get self out of building unseen; shower at nearby gym where membership is necessary to keep self in shape; spend entire day trolling NYC for place self can live; sell self at night.

It wasn't until she spotted a large photo of Barbra Streisand, flanked by snapshots of the McKinley High glee club and Rachel Berry with her fathers, that she realized only the final part of this schedule need be performed today. She gave a decadent sigh and snuggled further into the warmth and comfort of a real bed, not a mat that would leave her stiff and achy. But soft snoring and the weight of an arm draped across her chest prevented her from dozing off again. She peered out of one eye, the early morning sunlight blinding as it streamed through a crack in the curtains, and found Rachel's face inches from hers, mouth slightly open. She could smell the girl's sweat, a result of the night spent in close proximity to another's body heat. It was a balmy, summerlike scent and it briefly reminded Santana of waking in a tangle of damp and sated sheets with her ex-girlfriend Robin.

She examined Rachel's features—oblivious and serene in sleep—and felt a twinge of guilt for lying to her about why she was single. Truth be told, Robin dumped her over an argument about the amount of cocaine she used. Santana had tried to kick the habit since then, with partial success, but occasional slip-ups continued to set her back. She didn't even really like the stuff, but it kept her thin and made life tolerable. Definite benefits in her line of work.

With a sudden urge to be up and about, she slid from the bed, careful not to disturb Rachel. The girl mumbled something unintelligible and nuzzled her pillow, but did not wake. Santana tiptoed to her duffel bag and fished a pack of Camels and a red BIC from the jeans she had worn the previous day. Tugging on a pair of denim cutoffs, she stuffed the cigarettes and lighter into her pocket. It took a few attempts and several hushed curses before the correct pattern of twists and turns unbolted each lock, allowing her to ease out the front door. She didn't relish the idea of loitering on the sidewalk in a SpongeBob SquarePants T-shirt and ratty shorts, like she hailed from one of Allen County's finest trailer parks, so she chose the ascending stairwell and hoped for an accessible rooftop.

Wish granted, she leaned on the ledge of the five-story building and savored each drag at her nicotine breakfast. She expelled the smoke in long, steady streams and contemplated her injured wrist. Instead of healing, it had only gotten worse in the days since turning her first trick. Even balancing the cigarette between her index and middle fingers hurt. She knew Rachel's broken bone diagnosis was probably right, but she had also been sincere about her reason for not getting it looked at. She just hadn't included the part about fearing a doctor or nurse might uncover the real cause of the injury.

It surprised Santana that she had difficulty lying to Rachel. It surprised her even more that Rachel appeared genuinely concerned about her. Most people wouldn't give their high school tormentors the time of day, let alone a place to live. Either the girl was a saint or a complete moron. But of all the qualities Santana once picked on Rachel for possessing, being dumb was never one of them.

She paced the rooftop for a while, enjoying the solitude and planning her set for the night, including how to work the pole without her left hand to rely on. When she finally stubbed out her cigarette and headed downstairs to shower, she reminded herself not to worry. If there was one thing the eyes in the club would not be focused on when she danced, it was her wrist.

xxx

Every man in a fifty mile radius had shown up at Eden's Gate that evening to celebrate his birthday or last night of bachelorhood—or so it seemed to Santana. She couldn't complain. The VIP lounges were filled to capacity, and though she preferred the main stage, with its lower risk of inappropriate touching, private rooms were where a stripper made the serious cash. She had lost track of the time after being requested for numerous VIP's in a row, and some of the other girls were shooting her dirty looks, but she didn't care. Upon arrival at work she received a line of cocaine as her "welcome back gift" from Tulsa, the tiny blonde with a Southern accent. Now, Santana had energy and optimism to spare.

She finished up in the latest room to the sound of a rich college kid on his cell phone, bragging to a buddy that he had just gotten the hottest lap dance ever. "As if I totally didn't pop your lap dance cherry," she said when the door was closed, amused in spite of herself.

And speaking of cherries. Santana grinned widely when she scanned the patrons at the bar and noticed a certain petite brunette among them. She sauntered over to Rachel, passing up a few interested men along the way, and touched her on the shoulder. Somewhat for the benefit of observers, but mostly because it was such fun teasing the girl, she burred in Rachel's ear, "Hey, baby. Come here often?"

Rachel spun around in the bar stool, looking like a skittish fawn. "Oh, my God, don't do that! I almost Maced you," she said breathlessly.

"Not the typical reaction of my clientele, but okay," Santana said, hands up in surrender. "I see you made it in all right. Did Eddie find you?"

"Yeah, he said you told him to let me in first thing. Thanks... I think." Rachel gazed around at the almost exclusively male crowd, then back to Santana, eyes traveling over her stilettos and the sheer wrap that did nothing to conceal a white spandex miniskirt and halter. "I wasn't sure what to wear. Is this appropriate?" she fretted, gesturing to her champagne-colored slip dress.

Santana examined the spaghetti straps, the demure but existent cleavage, the waistline designed to accentuate curves, and the mid-thigh length of the skirt. It was a classy number, and the sequins at Rachel's breasts glittered under the kinetic bar lighting each time she inhaled or exhaled.

"Couldn't have chosen it better myself," Santana said, and meant it. Yet again, Rachel Berry defied her expectations. "How'd your audition go?"

"I waited for hours, sang a few bars of 'Meadowlark' and got a 'Thanks for dropping by.' Doubt I'll get a callback." Rachel's shoulders slumped in disappointment, though her expression remained neutral.

"Screw 'em. I'm sure you did great." Leaning across Rachel, Santana smacked the counter with her palm to get the bartender's attention. "You like tequila?" she asked, already signaling for the man to double her usual order.

"It's, um... fine, but I don't think I want—"

"You want," Santana broke in, intercepting two shot glasses as the bartender slid them towards her.

"You're on next, aren't you, Karm?" he said, placing a salt shaker and a cocktail napkin in front of her. He pointed to the catwalk with a pair of plastic tongs, then used them to drop two lime wedges on the napkin. "Can't wait to see you up there."

Santana glanced at the clock on the wall, above the shelves of liquor. The current intermission ended at eleven, giving her twenty minutes to prepare for showtime. "Yeah. Thanks, Tony," she said, sprinkling salt on the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger, which she had already moistened with her tongue. She licked it off and downed the shot of tequila in a gulp, sucking the lime dry before Rachel had laid a finger on her own.

"Karm?" Rachel cocked her head, the loose strands of her chignon falling delicately at her shoulders.

"Short for Karma," Santana said, wincing at the burn of alcohol in her throat. "It's my stage name. I got it from a song. It's sort of my signature thing. You'll see." She winked at Rachel and nudged the full shot glass towards her. "Drink up. It's on me. Hear that, Tony? Give the lady here whatever she wants."

Tony looked up from filling a pint at the beer tap. "You got it."

Regarding the drink with uncertainty, Rachel slowly lifted it and repeated the same steps Santana had with the salt, liquor and lime. Her eyes watered as she nursed the fruit, its green rind poised comically between her teeth. She shuddered as she plucked it from her mouth.

"Good girl." Santana gave a nod of approval and patted her on the knee. "I gotta go get ready. Don't take candy from any strangers while I'm gone."

"I won't," Rachel replied, her voice little more than a croak.

xxx

Five minutes left until her performance, Santana stood just offstage in the shadows and looked out into the club. Normally, she used this time to get a feel for the customers and decide which ones she would benefit from playing up to the most. Instead, she was keeping an eye on Rachel, who stuck out like a sore thumb amid all the testosterone and carnality. When they were sixteen and Santana's knowledge of the world consisted of what she learned growing up in a town that didn't even have its own Starbucks, Rachel's naïve ways had seemed immature and laughable. But after surviving four years in a place that made Lima Heights Adjacent look like Disneyland, Santana wished she hadn't been so hell-bent on losing that same innocence. She felt decades older than Rachel and somehow responsible for her, at least within the walls of Eden's Gate. She had asked Eddie to watch over the girl as best he could; nevertheless, she remained alert.

"She's a cutie. New girlfriend?" said a familiar drawl.

Santana turned from the vigil to find Tulsa studying her. The blonde smiled and offered a hit from the joint she was smoking. She barely cleared five-feet-tall, and at thirty-three she was the oldest woman employed by the club. Usually, she stuck to waitress duty, but on nights when they were packed, or when another girl cancelled at the last minute, she subbed as a dancer. The men liked her full breasts and curvy hips, and the female staff liked her because she knew where to find the best drugs. She also had a maternal quality that Santana, loath to admit it, missed the presence of in her life.

"Rachel? Nah, she's..." Santana mulled on the answer and on the smoke she drew from the tip of the joint before handing it back to Tulsa. She exhaled through her nose and shrugged. "She's an old friend."

"An old straight friend?"

"Yes," Santana said, with a snort of laughter. "So very straight."

"Too bad. You guys look good together."

"And you're stoned."

Tulsa cackled at the statement, verifying its accuracy, but she was drowned out by the amplified voice of the emcee revving up the crowd for another routine. The houselights flickered with a strobe effect as an explosion of boisterous rock music and applause pulsated in Santana's ears and chest. When the man rumbled her cue into the microphone—"Give it up for Karma!"—exaggerating the syllables of her name to ensure she heard it, Santana wiggled her fingers at Tulsa, threw back her shoulders and strutted out on stage in time with the song's opening lines:

"_You better believe in karma_  
><em>Baby, it's gonna sting<em>"

Santana had still been getting her feet wet on the job when a more experienced dancer recommended a name change for the sake of privacy. Shortly thereafter, while scrolling her iPod for a potential set list, she came across the Ida Maria tune "Bad Karma," a favorite from her teenaged years. Though its message wasn't overtly sexual, it had a naughty edge and a perfect tempo for bumping and grinding. She immediately pilfered half of the title, and then, because her first dance to it was a wild success, the entire song. It had since become part of her onstage persona, and she often used it as a warm up for the rest of the act. Tonight she did it for the benefit of her newest spectator, Rachel.

"_Bad karma_  
><em>Yeah baby, that's what you got<em>  
><em>Bad karma<em>  
><em>Whether you believe it or not<em>  
><em>The universe is gonna getcha<em>  
><em>You'll be scratching a seven year itch<em>

Many of the regulars knew the chorus well enough to join in, and those who didn't broke into whistles and cheers as Santana dipped her body sensually along with the last lines:

"_You know what I think?_  
><em>Damn! Bad karma's a bitch<em>"

Originally, Santana wanted the second verse edited for its references to Jesus and the saints, but an error by an inattentive DJ had once forced her to improvise. She discovered that, instead of being a turn off, the lyrics were a hit when she assumed a devout pose, then prowled on hands and knees. She often selected a random man at the tip rail and performed the sign of the cross in front of him. Her current choice, a guy with a goatee and slicked-back hair, took it as an invitation to touch; she swatted his hand away and shook her finger to warn him off. He mimed praying for redemption, and she spurned him with a flick of her hair that elicited more cheers.

During the last verse and chorus, she retrieved a fake bullwhip from the corner of the stage. It looked realistic and complemented the rest of her dominatrix-style outfit. And since the song was just a prelude in which she didn't take much off, working with a prop kept things interesting for her and the audience. The whip slithered like a snake as she trailed it across the floor and coiled it around her body. She ran it over her breasts and between her legs, pretending to get off on its braided cord dragging against pleasure spots. She draped it around the shoulders of men alongside the stage, using it to pull them close and then releasing them before contact was made.

By the final note she had them primed. Foreplay was through, and to the techno beat of "Heavy Metal Lover," with its more suggestive lyrics, she began the striptease. She treated the pole as intimately as she had the whip, but avoided any moves that were too ambitious. Gripping the metal bar tightly caused stabbing pains in her forearm. She clenched her teeth and kept going, relieved that no one seemed to notice. When the song concluded, she still wore heart-shaped pasties and a Lycra skirt over her G-string, its pleats short enough that it left nothing to the imagination. It would be tossed into the lap of some lucky gentleman during the coda to her routine—"Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard. The ultimate crowd-pleaser.

Her wrist ached now, and she could feel her enthusiasm dwindling. She made it through the song by blocking out everything but the open wallets and folded dollar bills she saw in the audience. If she had later been asked to identify any of the men whose faces she rubbed in her tits, or whose money she collected in her thong, she wouldn't have recognized a single one.

To the sound of a rowdy ovation, she cracked the whip a few times and draped it over her shoulder as she slunk off the stage.

xxx

In the dressing room, Santana bent over in a chair and unlaced the back of her knee-high boots, prying them loose and slipping into the more comfortable heels she had worn to work. She glanced up when someone jiggled a Ziploc baggy in her line of vision.

"You still got it, kid," Tulsa said, brandishing the clear plastic bag again. It contained two marijuana cigarettes, identical to the one they shared before the show. "For you and your 'straight' friend."

"Shit, Tuls, you're like a guardian angel," Santana said, kissing the back of the woman's hand as she accepted the weed and buried it in the sparkly clutch purse where her night's earnings were already stashed. "How much?"

"No charge. But if you want anything stronger..." Tulsa rubbed her index and middle fingers with the pad of her thumb, signifying that her generosity went only so far.

Santana chewed at her bottom lip, then shook her head. "Maybe next time."

"Okey doke. Well, break's over. Gotta get back out there and bust my ass before it gets any older." Tulsa gave a playful shimmy that undulated the fringe on her dress. "Oh, and you might want to touch that up a bit," she added, cupping a hand under Santana's chin and turning her face towards the mirror.

The perspiration from dancing under hot lights had smudged some of the thick foundation below Santana's eye. To a casual observer, the bruise probably wasn't distinguishable from the rest of her makeup, but Tulsa gave her a meaningful look and stroked her hair. Santana grabbed an applicator sponge from the cosmetics littered across the vanity table and made a quick touch-up.

"Dynamite," the blonde said, gesturing to Santana's red dress.

When a shift ended and she could slip out the rear alley unseen, Santana wore jeans and a blouse. But tonight she was meeting Rachel back at the bar, and while inside Eden's Gate, her main objective would always be to whet appetites. Low-cut and strapless, the dress hugged each curve, and its vivid color offset her hair so that it looked even darker.

"Thanks," Santana said, blowing a kiss as Tulsa departed. She inspected herself in the mirror once again, applied a smidge of red lipstick and headed out to pay the house fee. She disliked forking over part of her own wages to the business that employed her, but ten percent a night was required of all the dancers if they wished to use the stage and other amenities to showcase themselves.

_Why the hell do I keep doing this? _

She pondered the question as she made her way to the bar, after paying the fee. Several heads turned as she passed, and it occurred to her that maybe those reactions were the reason why—maybe she stayed for the attention. Wondering if she were really that pathetic, she took a seat in the empty stool next to Rachel and ordered a martini before acknowledging the girl.

"So, what'd you think?"

Rachel put up her finger and munched hurriedly at a piece of ice from the beverage she held.

"You hated it. I can tell." When her glass arrived, Santana stirred the little swordstick around, then brought it to her lips and plucked the fat olive from its tip with her teeth. Tonight she didn't have the patience to let it soak till the end. She drank the mixture of gin and vermouth as if to slake thirst rather than appreciate its character.

"No, I—... it was—" Rachel searched the bottle labels that adorned the wall, as though she might find the right words printed on them. "_You_ were amazing," she finally said, brown eyes full of sincerity when she faced Santana. "I've just never seen anything like... that. I don't know how you do it. I would never have the nerve to get up there."

"Well, tonight's open pole night and I already put your name in, so you're shit out of luck," Santana said, circling the rim of her glass with one fingernail. She laughed as the color fled Rachel's cheeks. "I'm kidding, Berry. This isn't a karaoke bar."

"You suck," Rachel said, shaking her head and smiling as she drained the last of the clear liquid in her glass. Her eyes widened when Santana caught her by the wrist and brought the tumbler up for a sniff.

"I suck? You could've had any of the booze you wanted, and you pick water instead." Santana rolled her eyes and finished off the martini, waving Tony over for another. "Tell me, Fräulein Maria, do the other nuns know you ditched the convent to see a stripper?"

Rachel ducked her head, blushing a rosy shade of pink that extended to bare neck and shoulders. Finding herself charmed, Santana attributed it to the minor buzz working through her system. She considered telling Tony to forget the second martini, but he was already mixing it.

"I don't really like to drink alone," Rachel said. "And it's probably silly, but I worry about the effect alcohol might have on my voice." She touched her throat momentarily, then folded her hands on her lap, struggling to fix them in place.

"Ah." Santana raised her newly replenished glass in a salute to irony. "I'll take this one for the team, then," she said, but paced herself with slower sips this time.

"Do you sing anymore?"

Santana gave a noncommittal lift of her shoulder. "What's the point? No one here is interested in my vocal abilities."

"I am. You shouldn't let your talent go to waste. I may not know much about stripping, but I know a good performer when I see one. And I've always thought you had a great voice."

The compliments were flattering, but they also irritated Santana. Her glee club days felt like a lifetime ago, and she'd made far too many mistakes since then. There was no going back. "Broadway is your dream, Rachel, not mine," she said. No venom included, just plain fact.

"It's not your dream to work here, though," Rachel said, her tone soft enough that it didn't sound like a reprimand. "Is it?"

Santana pretended not to hear her over the background noise. She took a long pull at the martini, letting the conversation die out while she finished it. Moments later, when the olive was gone and she had resorted to stabbing herself in the finger with the plastic sword, Tony arrived with two more cocktail glasses. Each contained a cream-colored liquid and a plump strawberry as garnish. "Ménage à Trois," he announced, setting them in front of Santana and Rachel.

"No, thanks, Tony," Santana said, examining the drink with suspicion. "We're just not that into you."

"Courtesy of the gentleman at the end of the bar, wiseass," Tony said, dimples showing as he tilted his head towards a man in khakis and a polo shirt. "And you know you wanna get with this."

Santana laughed and waved the bartender away as he tried to bust a sexy move. She tested the contents of her glass and, deeming it satisfactory, took a bigger swig.

"Looks like he's still hoping to get your attention," Rachel said.

"Who? Tony?"

"No, him." Rachel peeked over Santana's shoulder at the man who had bought the drinks. "The guy with the goatee. He's the one who tried to touch you onstage."

Santana swiveled around for another look. She had forgotten the incident, but remembered the man's hair because of its hardened texture from whatever gel he used copiously. "Oh yeah. Mr. Crunchy Head," she said, pointing to the drink and giving him a thumbs-up. "At least his taste in booze is better than his taste in hair products."

"Should we accept these?" Rachel asked, twisting the glass on its base and inspecting it from every angle.

"Um, yes. Guys send stuff over all the time when I'm working the floor. But it's not as much fun then, 'cause I have to stay sober."

"Don't they expect you to talk to them in return? Or something."

"You catch on quick." Santana dabbed the strawberry into the creamy drink and licked it clean before nibbling at the end. "But my shift's over and I'm not required to talk to him. If you want to, feel free."

"I'll pass. He kind of reminds me of the Duke from _Moulin Rouge_."

"Oh, my God, you're right," Santana said, sniggering into her glass. "And since he's a duke, that means he's got money to burn. So, unless you want me really shit-faced, you better get busy drinking that a'fores I do."

It took several tentative sips, but Rachel soon loosened up and began to laugh along as they made a game of naming which fictional characters the men around them resembled—the more repugnant, the better. Their cocktail glasses were empty, save one strawberry hull each, and Santana had just dubbed a portly man with a lazy eye as Mad-Eye Moody, when Rachel leaned forward and hissed, "The duke's staring at you. I think he's getting ready to come over here."

"Wanna mess with his head a little?" Santana asked, trying to remember if the tiny beauty mark on Rachel's left cheek had always been there.

"How?"

Rum, the main ingredient in their drinks, had made short work of Rachel's small frame, replacing apprehension with mischief; Santana felt the edges of her own conscience going fuzzy, too, but she didn't much care.

"Just play along, m'kay?" she said, reaching out to stroke a wisp of hair off Rachel's forehead.

Their faces only inches apart, Santana slid a hand behind the girl's neck and drew her in for a kiss. She applied enough pressure to make it look realistic, but not so much that it restricted movement. Rachel could free herself if she wanted to, and at first she did seem on the verge of pulling away in shock. But, after a slight hesitation, Santana felt the kiss reciprocated. She proceeded slowly, letting Rachel decide whether to take it any further. When the girl's tongue grazed her parted lips, the flavor of strawberry still on it, Santana was the one who went rigid. Stopping altogether, she eased back. They had made their point. And though she was out to her co-workers and had done a few girl-on-girl acts with other dancers, she doubted a lesbian make-out session at the bar would win favor with her boss. Mostly, she stopped because she wanted to continue.

Some of her lipstick had rubbed off on Rachel, who looked perplexed by the sudden retreat. Santana gave an apologetic smile and wiped the red smears away with her thumb. Before any explanations could be made, an unwelcome presence arrived and stood too close beside them. When he cleared his throat, Santana gazed up in annoyance. She was already bored with this man and his inability to take a hint.

"Hope I'm not interrupting the fun," he said, sleazebag grin in place. "But I noticed you girls were finished with your Ménages à Trois. I take it you enjoyed them?"

"Very much so," Santana said, laying the phony sweetness on thick. "We almost had to duke it out over who got the last drop."

Rachel tried to disguise a snort as a cough and turned her face away, shaking with suppressed laughter. Remaining composed, Santana patted her between the shoulder blades, fingertips idly tracing the soft patch of skin there. She spelled out messages—"_shut up!_" and "_he's a douche_"—but doubted Rachel understood them. The touches did silence her, though.

"Well, now that would've been a shame. I'd hate to see such lovely ladies come to blows. Especially since you seem so fond of each other."

"Fonder than you can imagine." Santana slid her arm around Rachel.

"I doubt that. I can imagine you two in all sorts of scenarios." He paused to let the insinuation sink in, his eyes roving over cleavage and skirt hems. "Or even the three of us. What do you say, Karma? And...?"

He waited for Rachel to offer a name. She glanced sideways at Santana, mirroring her posture and the expression of indifference, and said, "Raquel."

"What do you say, Karma and Raquel? Up for some male companionship?"

Santana looked him over, from brittle hair to shiny loafers. "Not even a little," she said, staring pointedly at his crotch as she emphasized the last word.

"Nothing little about me." He shifted closer, rubbing against her thigh. "Let's get out of here and I'll show you."

"I'm about to show my knee to your balls if you don't get the fuck off me."

"Aw, Karma." He pouted his bottom lip, making light of the threat, but stepped back just in case. "That's no way to talk to a paying customer."

Then the man spoke to Rachel again, trailing his finger down the length of her arm and bending to address her conspiratorially: "Tell her, honey."

Santana grabbed his finger and wrenched it away from Rachel with all the strength her injury permitted. "Listen, _honey_, neither of us is going to have sex with you. So, unless you want me shoving this up your ass"—she forced the digit as far backwards as it would go—"to be the only action you get tonight, I suggest you leave us alone."

He yanked his hand from her grasp and balled it into a fist, massaging his knuckle as he dropped the smooth operator act. His eyes blazed dangerously, and Santana feared he was about to take a swing at her. She steeled herself and prepared to call on Tony or one of the bouncers near the door, but the man suddenly held up his palm like a traffic cop. She followed his gaze towards Rachel, who had a pepper spray keychain aimed at his face.

"Fuck you both," he muttered, departing with an obscene gesture.

"Keep dreaming, pal," Rachel said, only lowering the keychain when he was out of sight. She breathed a sigh of relief and put a hand over her heart.

"Well, damn." Santana raised her eyebrows. "You go, Raquel."

xxx

They spent the cab ride to Rachel's apartment giggling and reenacting the scene at the club, each doing her best impression of the man known interchangeably as Mr. Crunchy Head and the Duke. Santana laughed harder than she had in months. Some of it was the alcohol, some the natural high of reckless behavior. But she also liked Rachel's sense of humor. The girl was often funny without intending to be, which made her all the more entertaining.

After paying the fare, Santana joined Rachel at the curb and they headed for the flight of stairs that led into the building. Small, mirthful noises still escaped as they recovered from their latest bout of hysterics, but Santana quieted when Rachel linked arms with her as they were mounting the top steps.

"I got propositioned to have a threesome by a complete stranger in a strip bar." Rachel shook her head in disbelief. "This has to be the most bizarre night of my life."

"That's every single night of my life," Santana said in an exaggerated tone, though it wasn't that far from the truth.

"Doesn't it scare you?"

Her first instinct was to lie and preserve the tough-girl image she had spent years crafting. Instead, she found herself holding the door open for Rachel and responding with honesty. "Sometimes. Those guys are usually harmless, though. They get a little tipsy and think they're Don Juan, but it's all talk. Until one of them turns into a total cocksucker, like our boy. But you get used to it."

"I'm not sure I would." Rachel pressed the elevator call button and held it longer than necessary. She fidgeted as she watched the numbers illuminate above the doors, signaling the lift's approach. "Although, putting him in his place was kind of exhilarating. I feel so wired right now, I couldn't sleep if I tried."

During their ascent to the fifth floor, Santana propped her hip against the metal rail that lined the elevator wall. Her eyes glazed over as she studied the peep toes of her Louboutin knockoffs. Personally, she wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week; but she had developed a skill for ignoring her own needs when it came to showing others a good time. A stripper should be the ultimate party girl, should she not?

"Wanna smoke some pot on the roof?" she asked, as blasé as if she were inquiring on the weather.

Rachel paused in the middle of twirling her purse around by its strap. It uncoiled and spun erratically as she blinked a few times. "Huh?"

"A friend of mine gave me a couple joints tonight at work. We could grab a blanket, head up top." Santana pointed to the ceiling.

"Um... I don't know. I mean, the roof might not be safe. I've never been on it."

"Seriously? I smoked a cigarette there this morning. It's fine."

"Oh." Rachel scuffed her high-heeled sandal on the worn carpet below it. When she looked up, she was biting her lip. "But, marijuana? Isn't that illegal?"

"Well, I didn't plan on informing the authorities." Santana nudged Rachel's foot with her own. "You're not gonna turn into a junkie from smoking a little pot, if that's what you're worried about."

"No, I know that. I'm just not sure I'll like it."

A battle between curiosity and prudence played out on Rachel's face, reminding Santana of those moments when a tiny angel and devil materialized on a cartoon character's shoulders. Her red dress left no choice but to advocate for the wicked side. "Only one way to find out," she said, taking the baggie from her purse and swaying its contents enticingly. "It can be another thing you check off your list, along with visiting a strip club and getting invited to a three-way..."

Halo and feathery wings couldn't compete with horns and pitchfork—Rachel's mouth quirked into a devious smile. She balked some more while they collected Santana's quilt from the apartment, toting it to the roof and spreading it on the flat, hard ground; but when they were seated and the joint was lit, she watched in fascination as Santana took the first drag.

"Okay, now, hold it like this," Santana said, wreathed in smoke as she demonstrated how to lightly pinch the rolled paper. "And suck it like a straw."

Rachel went cross-eyed as the roach neared her lips, and she puckered several times before summoning the courage to inhale. She immediately expelled the white vapors with a deep, rattling cough, then continued hacking as Santana giggled and rescued the cigarette from her hand.

"I probably should've mentioned that it's better to inhale slowly. And don't swallow. Just try to hold it in for a couple seconds, then release it." Santana gave another brief illustration, blowing a smoke ring for show and passing the joint back to Rachel. "This one'll be practice."

"Do you do this a lot?" Rachel asked, exercising even more caution as she took her turn again. The smoke barely made it past her lips, but she managed not to choke on the small amount that did reach her lungs. She exhaled shakily, with a few residual coughs, and offered over the joint.

"Why, do I look like a pothead?"

"I don't really know what they look like, but I'm guessing no. You just seem... well-versed."

Santana's eyes narrowed into slits, but the innocent, somewhat bleary gaze that met hers was free of judgment. She tilted her head back and sent up a series of puffs that had a calming effect as she watched them dissolve in the night air. "Comes with the territory when you're a stripper. But I learned how to do this before I ever got here. How do you grow up in Lima, Ohio, and _not _know how to smoke weed? That town's caked in more drugs than Fleetwood Mac's mid-Seventies' tour bus."

"I was preoccupied?" Rachel said, as if seeking the proper alibi for her inexperience. "Musical theatre was my crack."

They traded off the cigarette half a dozen times before Santana said, "So, does that mean Barbra Streisand's, like, your dealer?"

She kept a straight face while asking the question, but the moment she looked at Rachel they simultaneously burst into laughter that lasted until they collapsed against the quilt, wiping away tears. Resting shoulder to shoulder, they wore the remainder of the joint down to a smoldering nub. Santana flicked it aside and lit the next one, more than willing to finish it herself when Rachel signaled she had reached her limit. Drifting into a blissful haze, she listened as Rachel chattered on about everything from how much she missed the stars, which were canceled out by the city lights, to whether she wanted a bagel or donut for breakfast. Santana hadn't absorbed a single word, she realized, when the topic somehow reverted to the pros and cons of exotic dance.

"It would be fun to have a stage name, though," Rachel was saying, the scent of her jasmine shampoo overpowering the earthy marijuana smell as she turned her head, almost nuzzling Santana's. "I like yours a lot. I wonder what mine would be."

"Raquel, of course."

"Really? But I didn't put any thought into that. I'd rather use something that evokes my personality, or at least has a bit of mystery to it. Something like, um..."

"If you say Yentl, I'm going to kick your ass."

Rachel tittered and swiped at Santana's arm, missing it entirely. She let her hand drop into the gap between their hips and toyed with the edge of Santana's dress, absently fingering the soft, silken material. "Gypsy Rose Lee is probably off the table too, huh?"

"Unless you intend to strip on vaudeville, yes." Santana shivered as a faint tickle raised gooseflesh along her thigh—and everywhere else. "How about Mary Jane?" she said, joint poised in the corner of her mouth, bobbing with each movement of her lips.

"Ha ha."

"Okay, Belladonna then. For your more sophisticated users."

"Isn't that poisonous?" Rachel rolled onto her side, propping herself up with an elbow and stealing another hit before Santana moistened her fingertips with saliva and pinched out the cigarette butt.

"Yeah, but that gives you an element of danger to play up. Like you're a bad girl." Santana hooked her pinkie around Rachel's dress strap, tugging until it hung limply off one shoulder. Much more appropriate for a femme fatale. "And it means beautiful lady, so there you go."

Rachel batted her eyelashes coyly, then forgot modesty altogether and beamed. "That's quite a statement to make about yourself. I'm not sure I could pull it off."

"Well, not with that attitude. You gotta own it." Santana tousled the bangs that fell across Rachel's forehead in a straight line, dispelling their chaste and girlish appearance; she trailed her finger along the delicate curve of cheekbone and jaw below. "You're prettier than most of the girls I work with. They just know how to act sexy, so people buy into it."

"I'm too short to be sexy."

"That's why God invented stilettos, doofus," Santana said, shaking her head in mock exasperation. "They're a stripper's best friend." She sat forward, removed her shoes and suspended them in front of Rachel by their patent leather slingbacks. "Here. Put these on."

For a split-second, Rachel looked as though she might decline. Then, she kicked off her own heels and snatched up the offered pair, squealing with delight when they were a perfect fit. She tested their abilities by crossing and uncrossing her legs in various cheesecake poses. She plucked bobby pins from her hair and shook the strands loose, gazing over her shoulder with a sensuality Santana hadn't known she was capable of.

"Very nice," Santana said. "Now, Belladonna, let's see you work that moneymaker."

"But there's no music," Rachel said as she got to her feet, strutting like a runway model.

"Not my problem. You have to be ready for anything in this business."

Rachel considered the advice, standing motionless on the outskirts of the quilt. Gradually, she began to rock her hips to an imaginary beat, keeping time with the snap of her fingers and then, as she became engrossed in the dance, by patting it out on her thigh. While she swayed her body, she hummed an intro that bore a striking resemblance to an old Foreigner song. She sang the first verse under her breath, as if it were for her ears alone:

"_Well I'm hot blooded, check it and see_  
><em>I got a fever of a hundred and three<em>  
><em>Come on baby, do you do more than dance?<em>  
><em>I'm hot blooded, I'm hot blooded<em>"

"Excellent choice," Santana said, shoulders twitching rhythmically. "A classic."

Confidence bolstered, Rachel attempted some trashier moves that included the thrusting of tits and ass, hands roaming inner thighs and inching her skirt up. She brought it daringly high, a flash of white lace playing peekaboo at the hem.

"Good. Touching yourself is a must." Santana cupped her own breasts for a moment. "Especially boobs. Grope 'em a lot. It drives the customers apeshit, since they're not allowed to do it themselves."

Rachel obeyed the instructions as she faded in and out of song, jumbling the words and forgetting to continue after the lyric, "_Will you be ready when I call your bluff?_" She caressed various body parts before focusing on her breasts, circling them with her palms. When she gave them an experimental squeeze, the other dress strap slipped from her shoulder, bustline drooping just enough to reveal the top of her flesh-colored bra. If she noticed, it didn't show.

At what point Santana lost control of her objectivity, she couldn't say. But the longer the dance went on, the harder it was to critique. She felt warm, despite the mild evening, and it became almost impossible not to bite her lower lip. She mentally scolded herself for letting an amateur make her horny, but Rachel's unpolished choreography turned her on more than any of the overdone eroticism of Eden's Gate. "You'll have to take something off soon," she said, rationalizing that it was a valid tip for a lesson in stripping. "They get restless when you stall."

Rachel paused mid-twirl, her hair cascading to one side, fingers rumpling the dark strands. She swept them back carelessly, looking feral in that moment—hair in disarray, mascara smudged by tears of laughter, eyes a little bloodshot from the dope. "Bet you tell that to all the girls," she said with uncharacteristic sass, her eyebrow arched.

Santana's pulse quickened, though she kept a cool exterior. "Only the hot ones."

"So many compliments. I should've gotten high with you years ago." Rachel crouched to a position which Santana knew from experience took particular flexibility. Rather than springing upright again, she knelt on the quilt and crawled forward like a cat stalking prey. She turned and pointed to the strip of material that camouflaged a zipper at the back of her dress. "I'll need some assistance."

"Funny, you got into it without my help," Santana noted, pulling the tab down slowly so it didn't catch. She used the opportunity to admire Rachel's olive complexion and the diminutive slope of her shoulders, but followed house rules and didn't touch.

"Maybe I just wanted an excuse to get closer, then. Can't give a lap dance from way over there." Rachel lifted the dress and spun it teasingly above her head before discarding it. Her undergarments were simple and feminine, their light tones hinting at the contours beneath. With a sidelong glance, she said, "You do those, right?"

"They're one of my specialties, but they cost extra." Santana eyed the tiny hole in Rachel's pierced ear, checking the urge to lean over and nip the lobe.

"Hm. Well, I'll waive my fee. Just this once."

Santana couldn't think of a single clever response as her anticipation grew. She half suspected an elaborate prank, but Rachel showed no signs of backing off. In fact, she came nearer still, prior reservations about her body all but gone. Her fingernails left white tracks as she dragged them along her skin. She eased into Santana's lap, torso shifting sinuously.

It often amused Santana when the men at the club didn't know where to rest their hands during a lap dance; now, she sympathized completely. She tried to remain neutral, arms limp at her sides, but the weight pressing at her pelvis, the subtle grinding, intensified her arousal. When Rachel faced her again, Santana grasped her by the hips reflexively. Their eyes locked for a moment, a jolt of desire going through Santana's belly as she detected the heat—and wet?—against her bare thigh where Rachel straddled it. She wondered if months of no sex had warped her imagination, or if she was purposely being seduced by someone who wanted her in return.

She got the answer when Rachel placed a hand behind her head, bringing their faces close together, and whispered, "Just play along, remember?"

They kissed for the second time that evening, but now there weren't any jerk-offs to taunt or rules of conduct to obey. And Santana had never been much in favor of self-restraint. She slid her hands up Rachel's back and into thick, disheveled tresses, gathering two fistfuls. The aroma of jasmine flooded her senses, and her scalp tingled as her own hair received the slightest tug. She gave a small hum of pleasure into Rachel's mouth, inviting her in. Neither was deterred by the vague aftertaste from the weed; on the contrary, Santana liked the sharpness of it on her tongue. It had begun to fade by the time they broke for air and gazed intently at each other.

"You sure about this?" Santana asked, though the only reply she cared to hear was yes. "You're kind of baked."

"You've had at least double what I had." Rachel did a fair impression of Santana's trademark smirk. "If anyone's taking advantage here, it's me. Now, are you going to let me or not?"

Santana put her lips next to Rachel's ear. "Careful. I bite," she murmured, using her front teeth to snag the earlobe that had tempted her moments ago. She felt Rachel shudder as she nibbled the tender flesh.

"I'm counting on it."

As Rachel spoke, she pinned Santana to the quilt for another kiss. Several seconds passed while they acquainted themselves with each other's technique—Rachel, straightforward and enthusiastic; Santana, provoking and dexterous. They soon worked out a method of give and take, neither required to submit or dominate, though they had fun doing both. Each kiss longer and deeper than the last, they began exploring with their hands. The friction of their bodies and the ground below had made Santana's skirt ride, and Rachel urged it even higher. Relying on nothing but curves and elasticity to hold it up, the dress was easy to wriggle out of. Rachel sat back on her haunches as she observed the strapless bra and thong that were little more than thin black lines across Santana's privates.

"God, your abs make me want to kill myself," she said, caressing them with reverence.

"Oh, shut up. You don't have anything to complain about." Santana pinched at the girl's flat abdomen just enough to make her squirm. "Besides, I prefer a great rack," she said, rubbing her thumb over the hardened nipple inside one of Rachel's bra cups. "And look what we have here."

Rachel stifled a gasp, cheeks tinged in pink. She reached around and unclasped her bra, a flicker of vulnerability in her wide brown eyes. Santana encouraged her with a gentle smile that became predatory the minute Rachel conquered shyness and exposed her breasts. They were every bit as cute and perky as their owner, the nipples fully erect and begging to be touched. Santana obliged, taking one between her fingers and giving it the lightest of tweaks to gauge its sensitivity. Rachel arched her back and moaned.

"Perfect," Santana said, kneading the soft mounds. They were smaller than her ex-girlfriend's, but they fit into her hands just right. And their size wakened old fantasies from high school, when her ideal bedmate had usually been conjured up in the form of a teenage girl. She'd since discovered the countless ways women manipulated their bodies so they would be more desirable, but few matched the natural beauty of youth. More than any of the women Santana saw naked on a regular basis, Rachel resembled the cheerleaders who stripped down in the locker room after practice, or the girls in short nighties at slumber parties. She felt somewhat perverted being so turned on by it. Then again, the idea that she was a pervert made it all the more exciting.

Santana rose forward, with Rachel still astride her middle, and brought her mouth to the right breast, teasing with the tip of her tongue as her fingers took care of the left. She alternated licking, sucking and an occasional love bite, the noises that came from Rachel indicating that all were welcome. Paying equal attention to both sides, she coaxed taut skin to a nice ruddy shade. She would have continued readily had Rachel's hands not distracted her by releasing the clasp of her bra. As her bosom spilled free she tossed the heavy, onyx-colored hair off her shoulders so it wouldn't be in the way.

"You probably hear this a lot," Rachel said quietly, as if anything louder might spoil the mood, "but you're really, really beautiful."

To be honest, Santana did hear it a lot, but the men who said it were seldom looking her in the eye like Rachel. She wasn't exactly sure how to respond, and she didn't have to when a feathery touch drove out coherent thought. Her breath caught as Rachel palmed and massaged her breasts. After all the kinks and rough sex she had encountered in recent years, she'd almost forgotten that a little finesse went a long way. She basked in it for a while, lazily stroking Rachel's arm.

Without warning, Rachel leaned in to apply teeth and tongue to the rigid flesh she was rolling between her thumb and forefinger. Her knee pressed at Santana's groin during the change in position, and Santana closed her legs, rubbing against it. She hissed her approval as more nips followed, stinging just enough to feel good.

"Could swear you've done this before," she said in a husky voice.

"Huh-uh." Rachel dotted several kisses along Santana's collarbone and neck, pausing to whisper, "But I'm an excellent student." Extracting her knee from the grip around it, she glided the flat of her hand over Santana's belly until she reached the black thong. She waited with an imploring look, then slid the underwear down when she got a nod of consent. Her throat constricted at the sight of Santana fully nude and watching every movement with eyes darkened by lust.

"Just touch me like you touch yourself," Santana said, cupping Rachel's elbow and urging her on.

It turned out to be good advice. Santana uttered an incomplete swear word or two as slender fingers parted her and went to work with a diligence that left her breathless. She gave up and moaned when the focus was aimed at her clit, slow, swirling strokes gradually getting firmer and faster. She pulled Rachel down for a greedy kiss, ignoring the twinge in her wrist as she clutched at shoulders, back, buttocks.

Rachel teased her entrance until the need to be filled was almost unbearable. Santana whimpered in frustration and raised her hips involuntarily. When she got her reward, she clenched on and rocked her body in synch with the thrust of Rachel's fingers. The wet sounds of kissing and fucking, the tits mashed against hers, and the stiletto heel lightly scraping her ankle brought her to the edge. She grabbed Rachel's hand during climax, riding out the first as long as she could; the second one was less powerful, but still left her slack and panting when it faded.

Santana sank onto the quilt and gave her breathing a chance to return to normal. "Pleased with ourselves, are we?" she said, looking up to see a grinning face above her.

"Yes, actually," Rachel said, a cocky jut to her chin. "I just had Santana Lopez begging for mercy. Like a little baby kitten."

"I never begged."

Rachel examined her hand, three fingers soaked to the hilt. "That's not how I'll tell it."

"Okay, then—" Santana draped an arm and leg over Rachel, rolling both their weights until she was the one on top. "Remember to tell them how I fucked you senseless afterwards."

She captured Rachel's hand and ran her tongue the length of each digit. Lowering her head, lips parted a bit, she kept far enough away that Rachel had to reach for it if she wanted a taste.

And she did.

Santana lingered only for a moment, then broke the kiss and left a rosy trail from breast to navel, sucking and nibbling at her leisure. She inched Rachel's panties down with the same idleness, revealing a trim rectangle of pubic hair. Most of the dancers at Eden's Gate, including Santana, had theirs waxed completely off, but she didn't mind this—it just confirmed Rachel's authenticity. She placed a few kisses on the girl's inner thighs, settling between them and glancing up for the reaction. Heavy-lidded brown eyes gazed back without a trace of apprehension.

Rachel was drenched. Her hips jerked when Santana's tongue skimmed through the slickness, but she spread her legs farther, making soft sounds deep in her throat as the lapping continued. At once familiar and brand new, Rachel's flavor affected Santana like an aphrodisiac. Hungrily, she scooped it up and returned for more, all the while circling her fingertip around Rachel's opening. She took her time inserting two fingers, flexing them inside the tight space, seeking out a G-spot; a firm hand at the back of her head told her she had gotten close. She repeated the motion while flicking her tongue against the equally sensitive spot nearby.

"Jesus, that feels incredible."

"Did I just convert you?" Santana asked, interrupting a lick.

"Something like that," came the winded reply.

"Damn, I'm even better than I thought."

"Mm-hmm."

Head tilted back in ecstasy, Rachel obviously wasn't listening. Santana smiled to herself and resumed her task, even more determined to produce an orgasm Berry would never forget. And she was well on her way there, if that incoherent babbling was any indication. Quickening the pace, she groped Rachel's ass and sucked warmly at her clit. It was hell on Santana's entire forearm, but a sharp cry of release and the contraction of muscles around her fingers made the pain worthwhile. She didn't stop until she had wrung out every last ounce of pleasure.

Santana stretched out beside Rachel during the afterglow, only to be gathered into a fierce hug and nuzzled within an inch of her life. Giving in, she matched cuddle for cuddle and dropped a kiss on the top of Rachel's head, murmuring into her hair:

"Little baby kitten, my ass."


	4. Just Like a Woman

_She takes just like a woman _  
><em>Yes she does<em>  
><em>And she makes love just like a woman<em>  
><em>Yes she does<em>  
><em>And she aches just like a woman<em>  
><em>But she breaks just like a little girl<em>

- Stevie Nicks, "Just Like a Woman" (Bob Dylan)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 3: Just Like a Woman<strong>

Rachel woke to a dull drumming in her ears. She thought it came from her pulsing temples, but then she noticed her pillow had a heartbeat and—she opened her eyes—breasts. It also had a cozy embrace and smooth legs tangled up with hers. Judging by the steady rise and fall of Santana's chest, she was deeply asleep. No wish to rouse her just yet, Rachel kept still and tried to get rid of the brain fog that went beyond typical morning grogginess. Images of the previous night returned to her in dreamlike snatches: scampering through the hall in her underwear as Santana, dangling the quilt and both dresses out of reach, beat her back to the apartment; giggling uncontrollably with Santana, who thought Rachel's insatiable craving for Goldfish crackers at 3AM was hilarious; shedding their underwear again and climbing beneath the sheets to let their hands and mouths wander until sleep took them.

And, of course, the sex which preceded all that.

Alcohol, marijuana and desire had definitely loosened her inhibitions. Even under their spell, she'd worried that she would wake up full of regrets. She couldn't deny the drinking and smoking were poor choices—her saliva felt like paste, her IQ like that of a slug. But she wasn't ashamed of indulging, only of depending on the courage it gave her. At first she blamed it on trying to fit in, an adolescent need she had yet to overcome. There was more to it than just wanting to be friends with a pretty, popular cheerleader who would up her social status, though. Rachel really wanted Santana to like her.

The turning point came during Santana's striptease. That was when Rachel noticed her admiration budding into attraction. The blatant sexuality of the dance didn't hurt, but it was Santana's charismatic presence that took Rachel's breath away. She hadn't cared if it was mere infatuation. From then on, flirting with Santana made her giddy as a twelve-year-old with a crush, and though she hadn't known for certain where the night would lead, each lingering look and touch warmed her to the core. It also made her nervous, since none of her endeavors at sleeping with men ever went according to plan. For one reason or another she always ended up bowing out at the last minute. With Finn and Jesse, she just hadn't been ready; and she felt little connection with the guys she dated in college.

Those problems turned out not to exist with Santana. And in the sober light of day, Rachel didn't regret a moment of their time together.

_Except the morning breath. _

She cupped a hand near her mouth and exhaled, trying to decide if she should sneak out to brush her teeth. Instead, she discovered another scent on her fingers and blushed at the memories it evoked. Stirred by the movement, Santana groaned and attempted to curl into a ball, burying her face in the crook of Rachel's neck. When she became aware of her surroundings, she tilted her head back and blinked owlishly up at Rachel as if she didn't recognize her.

"Sorry I disturbed you," Rachel said, offering an apologetic smile.

"S'okay," Santana rasped. She cleared her throat and rubbed the sleep from both eyes with her knuckle. "I was having a creepy dream about a giant man-eating goldfish."

Rachel's laughter shook the bed.

"Ow." Santana grimaced, putting her hand over Rachel's mouth. "Too loud."

"Sorry. Headache?"

"Big time."

Rachel gently brushed a lock of hair off Santana's forehead. "You want to take something for it? I probably have Tylenol around here somewhere."

"Maybe later. Thanks."

An awkward silence passed while they exchanged glances, both waiting for the other to speak. As Rachel was about to cave, Santana looked like she might cut in. But she simply yawned, stretched and disengaged from their tangle of limbs little by little. Rachel hid her disappointment and followed suit, retreating to a separate pillow. The bed sheet drooped between them, and Santana pulled it higher, tucking it under her armpits.

The maddening quiet became too much for Rachel to bear. "I probably look a sight," she said, self-consciously tucking hair behind her ears and checking for crust in the corners of her eyes.

"If I look half as shitty as I feel, you got nothing to worry about." Santana crinkled her nose in disgust, wiping at layers of face makeup with the back of her hand. "Grody," she muttered, noting the beige streaks on her white pillowcase.

Santana did look a bit rough around the edges. Mascara and eyeliner had conspired to give her raccoon circles, the dominant color behind her squinty lids was red, and she had a massive case of bed-head. The less faded bruising along her cheekbone peeked through as well. Rachel had almost forgotten the mark was there, but she dismissed the urge to mention it. The subject seemed a touchy one for Santana.

"I guess we could both do with some showers," Rachel said, figuring that was safe territory.

"Yeah."

"You can go first again, if you want."

"No, you go ahead. I'm pretty tired. Think I'll chill out here for a while."

Rachel didn't know what she had expected to hear, but a dismissal wasn't it. Although showering did sound wonderful, she would rather have lazed in bed chatting or cuddling. Now she felt like an idiot for believing these situations worked that way. To make matters worse, she didn't have a stitch on beneath the sheets and her confidence had withered considerably. She glanced around for something to cover up with, but Santana saved her the trouble by rolling over to burrow facedown in the bedding.

"Okay. I'll... be back in a jiffy."

"Mm."

Stealing furtive glances towards the Santana-shaped lump, Rachel scurried about collecting bath supplies, clothes and a towel. Wrapping up in the latter, she darted from the apartment and practically collided with an unknown neighbor as he exited the bathroom. She skirted around him and closed the door without a word. Normally fastidious about her hygiene, she sped through it in under twenty minutes. It took her that long to realize the sooner she finished, the sooner she would have to face Santana again. But the shower helped clear her mind of its lethargy. Maybe it would do the same for Santana. After all, no one could be a ray of sunshine when they had a hangover.

Bolstered by the thought, Rachel gathered her damp hair into a loose French braid. She could only see herself from the neck up in the small mirror above the sink, but luckily she had chosen her sailor shorts and striped blouse, an outfit she knew was flattering because it earned her plenty of wolf whistles on the street. She returned to the apartment with her most winning smile in place.

Santana sat cross-legged on the floor next to the bed, hunched over a bowl of cereal. She barely looked up, her haggard expression the antithesis to the beaming faces of SpongeBob on her T-shirt and the leprechaun on the box of Lucky Charms at her side. "Hope you didn't want milk," she said, shaking the empty carton by her knee. "You're out."

"Oh. Well, I'll probably just have a Special K bar and some water, anyway."

Breakfast was the last thing on Rachel's mind; however, she did firmly believe it to be the most important meal. And she owed it to her body after the previous night's mistreatment. She considered saying so, but wondered if Santana, who obviously knew how to party hard, might take offense. With no appetite for it, Rachel ate her raspberry cheesecake cereal bar, sipped her glass of water and pondered a million other ways to broach the topic. But none was sufficient as she watched Santana spooning colorful marshmallow shapes into her mouth, leaving the oat pieces to languish in the milk. They spoke very little before Santana showered, and even less after.

Two days later they still had not discussed anything more meaningful than who got the bathroom first or what items to put on the grocery list. Their schedules made avoidance easy, since one left work around the same time the other went to it. Rachel also suspected that Santana's increasingly long hours weren't a coincidence.

By the third day Rachel was losing hope they would ever talk about what had happened between them. She'd been too numb and confused to cry over it, but that morning, dressing quietly for work and gazing at Santana's back on the far side of the bed, tears streamed down her cheeks and wetted the tops of her saddle shoes as she bent to put them on. Since childhood a malevolent voice had plagued her, accompanying only her worst failures, preying on her deepest fears. She knew it wasn't real, but its messages hurt nonetheless:

_You are a complete joke, Rachel Berry. Look at you in these ridiculous clothes, pining for yet another person who does not want you. _

The resilience that saw her through such moments in the past had gotten harder to come by in adulthood. Reminding herself she was destined for stardom and throngs of adoring fans didn't have quite the same impact while trapped in a dead-end job, an apparent one-night stand the closest she could get to love.

But wallowing wouldn't get her anywhere, either.

She dried her eyes with the chiffon scarf that completed her ensemble, then secured it around her ponytail. From the trunk at the foot of her bed she retrieved a change of clothes and stuffed them into the oversized bag she reserved for her most disorderly days. She rooted through its contents, pulling out a block of pink Post-Its and a Sharpie. Sniffling, she composed a note in small, neat penmanship:

_We need to talk. Let's meet _  
><em>for dinner at Roma's. My treat.<em>  
><em>Call if you don't want Italian,<em>  
><em>otherwise I'll be there at 6.<em>

She double-checked her spelling and grammar, but one too many re-reads had her questioning word choice and tone as well. Too desperate? Too forceful? Not forceful enough? During a stilted conversation the day before, Santana mentioned having the next night off, but that didn't guarantee she would show up at the restaurant. Rachel considered writing a second, more compelling draft to ensure the invitation didn't get turned down. But she didn't have the page space or the time for that. She sighed and stuck the note to Santana's duffel bag where it wouldn't be missed, then slipped out the door.

xxx

At a quarter after six, Rachel sat alone at a patio table in front of Roma's. Months ago she had come across the quaint Italian bistro while rambling the city. She loved its intimate, laid back atmosphere, which extended to the wrought iron fence that corralled the outdoor seating. Despite the low afternoon sun, a fairyland glow of candles in jars and white twinkle lights adorned each tabletop and umbrella. Adding to its charm, it rarely boasted a crowd, and those who did stop in were treated to delicious cuisine and attentive servers. To Rachel it seemed she had found one of the best kept secrets in NYC eateries. But on the night of their chance encounter at the diner, Santana had pointed to the bistro as they passed it on the way home, and said, "Oh, my God, you live near Roma's? I love their breadsticks."

They both agreed that the long, crunchy strips of bread the restaurant doused in garlic and served by the basketful were the next best thing to actually being at Breadstix.

Rachel was halfway through her first basket. Exciting news at work and anxiety about confronting Santana had turned her into a stress-eating bundle of nerves. Her munching quieted, however, as the minutes continued to tick past 6 o'clock. Just when she was about to call the waiter over and let him know she would be dining alone after all, she spotted a slim, raven-haired figure crossing the street. Santana flicked her cigarette into the gutter and walked slowly towards the patio. She was as striking as ever in a short grey dress and high heels, but her posture—head bent, arms folded—lacked spirit. In the brief moment before she caught Rachel staring, she looked fragile and lonely.

Rachel busied herself sweeping crumbs off the tablecloth and the napkin in her lap. Though her pulse raced, she managed a casual smile. "Hi. I'm glad you're here," she said, pushing the basket across the table as Santana sat down. "I was beginning to think I'd have to finish those by myself."

Santana eyed the remaining breadsticks without reaching for one. "Yeah. I had to make a stop. Took longer than I thought."

"Oh, well, no big deal. I've been enjoying the weather and the people-watching." Rachel cringed inwardly. Way to seem like even more of a creeper, she thought. Plus, there were few passersby to watch, and the only other customer outside was a hipster several tables down, nose buried in a copy of _The Bell Jar_. "You need something to drink," she said, trying to recover. "Do you know what you want to eat? I'll get the waiter."

"Just—" Santana held up her hand for silence. "Just get it over with. No theatrics."

"What?"

Santana's features stayed void of emotion, but a storm brewed in her dark eyes, their lids puffy and red-rimmed. "You're kicking me out, right? I don't need you to let me down easy," she said, a quiver in her voice belying the statement.

"No, I— that's not what this is about. I would never just kick you out." Rachel spoke earnestly, keeping her volume to a minimum. She really hadn't considered it an option to ask that Santana move. A volatile roommate was better than no roommate, and she couldn't leave the girl homeless. "I'm sorry. I should have been more precise in my note."

Tilting her head, Santana looked askance at Rachel. She relaxed a little in her chair and eventually reached for a breadstick, snapped off the end, and popped it into her mouth. "Maybe I overreacted," she said, with a shrug. "Living with you must be getting to me."

A monotone delivery made it difficult to tell if that were insult or banter. Rachel was glad for the distraction when the waiter, a boy who barely looked old enough to drive, appeared with a basket of fresh, warm breadsticks and a refill on her water. He gawked at Santana while she ordered an iced tea with lemon, then stumbled over his own feet as he hurried off to get it.

"Some things never change," Rachel said, watching him go.

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Rachel hated beating around the bush, but she preferred the serious discussion wait till after their food arrived and the interruptions became less frequent. That, and she was about to burst if she didn't share her news with someone. "So," she said, unable to hold her cheerfulness at bay, "ask me what I found out at work."

Santana rolled her eyes, but played along. "What did you find out at work?"

"One of our best performers gave his two weeks' notice today. It's unfortunate because he has such a lovely voice, reminiscent of a young Pat Boone. But, like I, he has Broadway aspirations. He's written a number of librettos, including one that's in the early stages of production." Rachel hoped the preface would build anticipation, but she received a look of boredom. Indeed, some things never changed. "Open auditions are this Saturday. And he thinks I would be a shoo-in for the lead."

Beaming, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and folded her hands primly on the table, indicating her point had been made.

"Wow, that's... great," Santana said between crunches. To her credit, she at least tried to sound impressed. "What's the role?"

"You have to promise not to laugh."

Santana perked up a bit, breadstick momentarily frozen halfway to her mouth. "Is this guy's last name Barnum or Bailey?"

"Very funny," Rachel said dryly, though the joke didn't much bother her. It was progress. Santana had a smile on her face, albeit a wicked one, and they were communicating in more than monosyllables. "It's not the circus. And technically it's Off-Broadway. But it is a musical."

"You're stalling."

"It's an adaptation of _Sybil_."

"The sitcom with that chick from _Moonlighting_?"

"Ew, not Cybill Shepherd. _Sybil_ the movie. Starring Sally Field and Joanne Woodward. Field won the outstanding lead actress Emmy."

Santana continued to stare blankly.

"Seriously?" Rachel said, aghast at the ignorance of cinematic history before her. "It was one of the defining moments in her career. It predates _Norma Rae _and _Places in the Heart_."

"I like _Mrs. Doubtfire _and _Legally Blonde 2_," Santana said, as if that might calm the beast she had unleashed.

Rachel shook her head in dismay, but the arrival of Santana's iced tea prevented a full-scale lecture on the quintessential performances of Sally Field. She rattled off her usual order of spaghetti with marinara, Santana opting for the fettucini alfredo, and the boy waiter skittered away to do their bidding.

"I still don't get what the big deal is," Santana said, emptying two packets of sweetener into her glass. "If it's so fantastic, why would I laugh?"

"Well, it's very complex. It's, um, based on the true story of a woman with Multiple Personality Disorder."

Once Santana had regained some composure, she said, "Oh God, you just made my day. I almost shot iced tea out of my nose."

Accustomed to much worse ridicule, Rachel didn't let a little snickering deter her excitement. "Mock all you want, but it's the sort of role that can make an actress. Alice Ripley won the Tony for her turn as a manic-depressive housewife."

"I'm sure you'll do her proud."

"Thanks," Rachel said, choosing to take it as a compliment. "I just hope I get it. Gus said he's best friends with the casting director and he'll put in a good word for me."

Sobering, Santana took a long pull at her straw. "Sounds like Gus has it bad for you," she said tersely.

The sudden shift in mood caught Rachel off guard. She had been rejected enough times to know the subsequent jealousy when she heard it. Exactly what caused this jealousy in Santana wasn't as clear. "We're friends who respect each other's talent, that's all. Besides, he would never cheat on his husband."

"You'd be surprised what people will do." Santana gazed past Rachel as if she weren't there, then, with some effort, refocused and hoisted her drink. "Congrats. I'm glad things are looking up for one of us."

Rachel tapped her glass to the other, forcing a smile that went unseen. "Is anything the matter, Santana?" she asked, fretting her bottom lip and proceeding carefully. "You seem kind of distracted."

"I'm fine. Bad day at work. Last night, I mean."

"What happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Santana said emphatically. "My stupid boss is just riding me about my 'unprofessional conduct.' That prick who hit on us went crying to him like a little bitch baby the other night, so now he's watching my every move like the fucking Gestapo."

"But that's so unfair. Did you give him the full story? If you need me to vouch for you, I will."

"Thanks, but I doubt it would help. Once he figures out I've been slacking off on routines because of my wrist, he'll probably fire me anyway."

"I didn't realize it was still bothering you so much," Rachel said, glancing at the wrist with concern. Its color had improved, disguising an abnormal bulge below the skin. "You really should get it looked at. It's not healing properly on its own."

"We've been over this already."

"Yes, but you're being unreasonable. I'll go with you to the ER—they have to treat you, with or without insurance." Rachel reached across the table and let her fingers rest lightly against Santana's. "Taking care of yourself is all you should be worried about. You're risking even worse damage the longer you wait."

Santana nudged the lemon around in her glass, stabbing through its pulp with her straw. After a moment she pulled her other hand away from the touch. "You think I don't know all that? I'm not stupid. And I don't need your advice on how to run my life."

Rachel sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I don't think you're stupid," she said softly. "I just care about you."

"Well, there's your first mistake."

Their strained silence lasted until the waiter returned with two heaping plates of pasta and a look of accomplishment as he set each down. Getting no further acknowledgement than refusals of grated Parmesan, he took the hint and wandered off. Rachel focused all of her attention on mixing sauce around until not a single noodle was dry.

"Why did you really invite me here?" Santana asked, twirling a fork in the middle of her fettucini, but taking few bites.

Suddenly, Rachel understood what stage fright must be like, her stomach doing wild somersaults. She took a deep breath and reminded herself she was an adult, fully capable of having this conversation. "I was hoping we could talk about what happened the other night. On the roof," she said, feeling pitifully inarticulate.

"We had sex. What's there to talk about?"

Rachel glanced at the far table to be sure Sylvia Plath still had her reader entranced. "I don't know. Didn't it mean anything to you?" she said tremulously.

"It meant we were both horny and you wanted to experiment. It's cool, I used to do it all the time. You don't owe me anything in return."

"It was more than experimenting for me," Rachel said, struggling to keep her emotions in check. "I'll admit I was curious, but I wouldn't hop into bed with someone for that reason alone. I'm not a whore."

Santana exaggerated putting down her fork so it didn't clatter against the plate. "Like me, in other words."

"That is not what I meant. It's just... you're the first person I've done that with. Male or female." Rachel's cheeks reddened at the humiliation of saying it out loud. She might as well have been right back in high school, dying of embarrassment because the first boy she ever kissed turned tail and ran. "It's not something I take lightly."

"Shit," Santana muttered, looking vaguely ill. "Oh, shit." She rested her elbow on the table, closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose like she had a headache. "Why the hell did you choose me, Berry?"

The question sounded rhetorical, so Rachel left it unanswered and tried to get her trembling chin under control. But the tears only came quicker when she fought them, and they flowed freely as she asked, "Wasn't I any good?"

Santana opened her eyes to stare at the ardent little flame burning in a candle holder next to the salt and pepper shakers. She gave a weak smile, but didn't glance up. "You were better than good. I had a lot of fun being with you."

"Then why are you avoiding me? Am I just another 'V-card' to add to your collection?"

That snapped Santana out of it. She fixed a cold glare on Rachel. "If you haven't gotten over me screwing goddamn Finn Hudson, that's proof enough we don't belong together. You're still hung up on guys. Once this is out of your system you'll be fine. But it's not like that for me. I already made the mistake of falling for a girl who wasn't sure about her sexuality. I won't do it again."

"I may be new at this, but I know when I have feelings for someone," Rachel said, dragging the back of her hand across her wet face. "Can't you at least give me a chance?"

"For what, a successful relationship? Wake up, sweetie. I am a fucking disaster." Santana's voice broke as she leaned forward to emphasize the last part. "You can do so much better than me."

"But—"

"You wanna hear the real reason I was late getting here?" Santana asked, brown eyes welling with tears, her expression pained. "I had to clean up. Last night some guy at the club offered me two grand if I'd sleep with him. So when he called me today, I went over to his house while his wife was out shopping for their daughter's sweet sixteen, and I let him fuck me in their bed. Hell, I put on his daughter's school uniform and let him fuck me in her bed. He was really into that."

Rachel blanched and covered her mouth, too horrified to speak. She searched for signs that it was all a vulgar lie meant to frighten off unwelcome advances. She found none.

"And he wasn't the first. I never got mugged." Santana pointed to her injured wrist. "I gave a blowjob to a guy in the backseat of his car, then he shoved me out because he was pissed I didn't swallow. But at least I've got my standards, right?"

Rachel thought she might be sick if Santana continued. She shook her head, a silent plea for the confessions to stop. They echoed on in her mind, the taste of bile filling her mouth as she pictured Santana selling sex to random men, demeaning herself for their pleasure. Risking everything—and putting others at risk too.

"See, I've already ruined any chance we had," Santana said, delving into the wad of bills stuffed inside her purse. She selected a twenty and laid it next to the plate of noodles she'd hardly touched. Standing, she rounded the table and paused beside Rachel. "I wish things could've been different. You really are a good person."

With a tender hand, Santana cupped Rachel's cheek and gently kissed the other, adding, "That's why it's best to forget you ever saw me."

Then she turned and fled, refusing to look back no matter how many times Rachel called her name.


	5. Storms

**A/N: **Thanks for the chapter 3 reviews, guys. I was beginning to worry I scared everyone away with chapter 2. And I feel like I should point out that the lyrics at the top of the last chapter are not supposed to be off-center. That really bugs me. But enough about my OCD, and on with the fic.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>So I try to say<em>  
><em>Goodbye my friend<em>  
><em>I'd like to leave you with something warm<em>  
><em>But never have I been a blue calm sea<em>  
><em>I have always been a storm<em>

- Fleetwood Mac, "Storms" (Stevie Nicks)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 4: Storms<strong>

_Nailed the Sybil_ _audition. Totes getting a callback. More later, battery's low._

Before she had even set foot out of the theatre, Rachel pressed the send button on her text message to Kurt. She snapped her phone shut and pocketed it as she exited the building, a light spring in her step. Extreme punctuality had earned her a choice audition slot, and the rest fell into place from there. Her co-worker Gus made good on his promise of recommendation to the casting director, who showed particular interest in meeting her. The monologue she chose from the stage production of _Steel Magnolias_, an underhanded reference to Sally Field starring in the movie version, was well-received. And she felt vindicated in her decision not to perform a selection from _Next to Normal_, a show the amateurs would surely flock to in hopes that singing about mental illness qualified one to portray it. Instead, she had poured her heart and soul into 32 bars of "Who Will Love Me As I Am?" from the musical _Side Show_, another Alice Ripley vehicle—just enough allusion to draw comparisons and suitable for its theme of alienation from society.

Rachel understood all too well the loneliness the song depicted. She had almost broken down as she stood center stage, belting the final verse:

"_Who will ever call to say I love you_  
><em>Send me flowers or a telegram<em>  
><em>Who could proudly stand beside me<em>  
><em>Who will love me as I am?"<em>

Luckily, she channeled her emotion into a stellar performance that impressed the audition panel. It was the highlight of her otherwise dreary past three days, and she began to hum the song as she entered a nearby Starbucks to reward herself with a soy strawberries and crème frappuccino. Icy treat in hand, she strolled towards her apartment, reliving every detail of the tryout and taking ruminative sips. The creamy texture and strawberry flavor were familiar somehow, and when she pinpointed that they reminded her of the Ménage à Trois she'd tasted at Eden's Gate, a whole other set of memories rushed in.

Only a week had gone by since the strange, exhilarating night that flipped her world upside down, but it felt longer. She was still processing all of it, though Santana's absence made the effort seem futile. Why bother figuring out your feelings for someone who wasn't there? Rachel kept at it anyhow, never one to shy away from introspection. She returned to the same conclusion each time—despite having plenty of reasons not to, she cared deeply for Santana. Their lives were connected now more than ever. That wasn't something Rachel could easily give up on.

After the incident at Roma's, she wanted to blame Santana for hurting her, but she couldn't justify playing the innocent victim. No one had forced their intimacy, and though Santana prostituting herself was a terrifying revelation, her promiscuous ways were common knowledge in high school. Rachel's own poor judgment disturbed her more than anything else, and she did her best to counteract it by visiting a clinic that gave free STD tests. So far the results were fine and a nurse had assured her that the described contact posed a very small threat. She expected the burden to lift from her shoulders at the news, but fear for Santana's safety continued troubling her.

Other than shifts at the diner, the trip to the clinic and that morning's audition, the past few days had been spent trying to track Santana down. She and her duffel were already gone when Rachel got back to the apartment after paying the bill at Roma's and racing home. If anyone at Eden's Gate knew the whereabouts of their star attraction, they weren't talking. Rachel had stopped by the club three times in as many days, but always got the same story from Eddie. No Karma today.

Rachel hoped tonight would be different. Santana had danced the previous Saturday, maybe she'd be on again this Saturday. The prospect of seeing her and knowing she was unharmed made Rachel want to turn around and head straight to the club without waiting for nightfall. She took out her cell phone to check the time, disappointed to find it not quite 4 o'clock. Her apartment was just a couple of blocks away, and she decided it made more sense to go home first. She could rest a little, change clothes, have a dinner that consisted of more than slushy berries, and charge her cell, something she had forgotten to do in her eagerness to get to the theatre.

The phone rang immediately after she flipped it shut. Probably Kurt or one of her fathers impatient to hear about the audition, she predicted.

Her heart leapt when she read the caller's name on the front display—

Santana.

Rachel fumbled with the device, almost dropping it and her frappuccino. Saving both, she got the phone open and to her ear, then stood frozen in the middle of the sidewalk with the Starbucks cup at arm's-length like it was about to explode.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Hello?" she repeated. "Santana?"

A long silence, followed by a sigh. And then, "Hey."

"Hi..."

"Who is this?"

Shoulders slumping, Rachel hung her head and resumed a mournful pace. _Figures, she finally calls and it's by mistake._

"It's Rachel."

"Oh." Pause. "Did you call me?"

Rachel frowned, straining to hear each word; it sounded like Santana was turning away from the receiver as she spoke. "Uh, no. You called me. Are you okay?"

Liquid sloshed in a container on the other end, and the reply—louder and a bit slurred—took a while. "I think I had too much."

"What do you mean? You drank too much?"

"Huh-uh, the other stuff. Never had enough money to buy so much before." A noisy sniff, an abrupt laugh. "Tulsa said, 'Rock on, gold dust woman.'"

Rachel had studied Fleetwood Mac's _Rumours_ album extensively when it was assigned for glee club, and she knew the song reference well. Her alarm rose sharply. "Gold dust? You mean you took drugs? What did you take?"

"My nose won't stop bleeding." Santana began to cry.

"Wait, what?" Rachel halted, gazing around in a panic, not quite sure what she was looking for. "Santana? Santana! Why is your nose bleeding?"

"You're yelling at me," Santana whimpered. "Don't hate me, 'k, baby? I wanted it, too." Her voice dropped to a sleepy murmur. "You taste so good... So pretty..."

"Listen to me, Santana. I need you to tell me where you are so I can come get you. Can you do that?"

After several seconds of rustling and a cough: "There's one of those things. Umm... a fire escape."

"You're on a fire escape?"

Santana made a tsk noise with her tongue, as if the question were preposterous. "No, the building it comes with."

"Which building is it? Are you at the club?"

"We came here after the club. Brought my quilt." Santana coughed again, her breathing labored. "Where'd we put it? I'm tired."

Frantically piecing the muddled answers together, Rachel asked, "Are you on the roof of my apartment building?"

"Yeah... how did I get up here?"

"Santana, stay away from the ledge. Just sit down near the door until I get there, okay?" Rachel pitched her half-empty frappuccino aside and ran at full tilt. In an attempt to look the part of sweet, unassuming Sybil Dorsett she had worn a pleated knee-length skirt and loafers to the audition, and now the shoes proved to be a much wiser choice than the heels she had deliberated on. Still, she skidded as she flew through a crosswalk without checking both ways, bounding onto the curb at the last second and miraculously landing on her feet. She kept on, ignoring the shouts of an irate driver. _Beep_. "Are you listening?" she demanded. "Don't try going down the stairs or anything, just sit down."

"My chest feels weird." _Beep._

"Hold on, I'm almost there. I need to hang up and call 911."

_Beep._

A prolonged clatter and the sound of breaking glass made Rachel's blood run cold. _Beep._ She heard Santana retching, wheezing, sobbing.

"What ha—"

_Silence._

Rachel yanked the phone away from her ear in time to watch the screen go blank, its battery dead. "Oh, God," she gasped. "Oh, God."

Her apartment building at the end of the block suddenly looked miles out of reach. She tore by a group of teenagers who were laughing and showing off for each other on a stoop ahead, a few of the stragglers gaping as she yelled, "Move!" and plowed between them. When she made it to the steps outside her building she mounted them two at a time, threw open the front door and bypassed the elevator, with its tendency to malfunction, in favor of the stairwell. Somewhere around the third floor her legs started to shake, calves and thighs burning. By the fourth she was lightheaded, her lungs on fire. As she cleared the fifth, bursting through the door to the roof, she had to double over and catch a breath before she could go any farther.

Santana lay on her stomach a few feet away. Glass littered the ground beside her. The red label was all that remained intact of a liquor bottle, the contents of which formed a wide, dark puddle around and beneath her. The cell phone was still open, inches from her limp hand.

Rachel hurried over and grabbed the phone, thankful to find it similar to hers. Deftly, she ended the previous call and turned the speaker button on while dialing 911. She swept glass shards away with her foot, knelt, and put down the phone to roll Santana onto her back. Soaked in vomit, Santana's long hair clung to her face and neck. The blood smears under her nose and on her lips and chin gave her a ghoulish appearance. She didn't open her eyes.

"Santana. Can you hear me?"

No response and no chest movement. Rachel leaned closer, praying she would feel breath against her cheek. There wasn't any. Twenty-one years as an overachiever had equipped her with many skills, but she'd never put into practice the CPR training that seemed essential in her days as a babysitter. If not for a keen memory and the ability to perform under pressure, she might have floundered. Instead, she sat back on her heels and let adrenaline take over as she clasped her hands together at the center of Santana's chest and pumped, counting off to thirty in her head.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" said a disembodied female voice.

"I think my friend is having a drug overdose. She's unconscious and isn't breathing." Rachel used the edge of her skirt to wipe away blood and vomit, checking that Santana's airway was clear. She carefully tilted the head, pinched the nose and, without hesitation, breathed into the mouth twice.

"What's your location?"

Rachel started compressions again as she gave her address and listened to it recited back verbatim. "Yeah, it's an apartment building," she added. "We're on the roof."

"You said she isn't breathing? Do you know CPR?"

"I'm already doing it."

"Do you know what kind of drugs she took?"

"I don't know. She just said she'd had too much. And she was drinking some kind of alcohol."

"How old is your friend?"

Two breaths, more pumping. "Twenty-one. Or twenty-two? I can't remember her birthday," Rachel said, tears springing to her eyes at the confession. How had she forgotten something so vital?

"That's okay, sweetheart," the dispatcher said kindly. "Can you tell me—"

The rest of the question went unheard when Rachel felt a twitch beneath her hands. She pulled away, frightened that she had misjudged her strength and cracked a rib. But Santana's chest expanded by itself this time and she inhaled with a sudden, deep rasp, then coughed weakly.

"Hon, are you still there?"

"She's breathing," Rachel said, more to herself than to the stranger on the phone. Heat spread through her knees where the asphalt dug into them, but she scooted around Santana's head, easing it into her lap to protect it from the hard ground.

"Is she conscious?"

"It looks like she's coming to." Rachel watched anxiously as Santana strained to open her eyelids without them fluttering closed again. It took several tries, but she finally kept them apart long enough to focus on the face above her.

"Rach..." she groaned, the final syllable eluding her.

"Shh." Rachel stroked Santana's cheek with the backs of her fingers. "I'm here. Everything's going to be all right. I've got you." She continued with the gentle words and touches, as much for her own comfort as Santana's. To the dispatcher, she added, "She's awake."

In junior high Rachel's small size and flair for drama had made her the target of countless "Keep Away" games during recess. Of all the kids who got involved, Santana was the one who best knew how to offer the captured item—a notebook, a headband, a star-shaped eraser—then snatch it back at the last second, heaving it across the playground. Now, as if reverting to her eleven-year-old self, determined to hold victory just out of grasp, she blinked drowsily and let her brown eyes roll back in their sockets until two white slits stared up at Rachel. She grunted and her entire body went rigid.

"Something's wrong." Rachel pulled her hands away as if she'd been burned. "She's—"

Santana began to jerk violently, arms and legs contorting. She made a gurgling sound in her throat like she was being choked.

"Oh, my God, I think she's having a seizure," Rachel said, voice hitting a shrill pitch. "Help me!"

"The paramedics will be there soon, hon. Right now I need you to stay calm and roll your friend onto her side. Can you do that?"

Rachel nodded.

"Hello?"

"Oh. Y-yeah."

"Good. Roll her onto her side, but don't try to restrain her. Just cushion her head as best you can and make sure there's no clothes or anything tight around her neck."

Gripping Santana's shoulder, Rachel put every ounce of strength into turning her while supporting her head. For a moment the convulsions rocked them precariously, but Rachel held on until they were both situated. She brushed a lock of wet hair out of the way and checked that the collar of Santana's T-shirt was loose.

"I did it."

"How's she doing?"

"Still shaking," Rachel said, wanting to avert her eyes from the writhing body below. It felt like a terrible invasion of Santana's privacy to watch her lose control of something that normally brought her so much power and confidence.

"When she stops you'll need to keep an eye on her breathing, okay?"

Rachel sniffled and agreed.

"What's your name, dear?"

"Rachel. Rachel Berry."

"Hang in there with me for just a few more minutes, Rachel."

A few more minutes sounded agonizing. Rachel only half-listened as the dispatcher requested further information, but she still hadn't heard any sirens by the time the convulsions ended. Santana wilted with exhaustion, saliva trickling from the corner of her mouth and pooling on Rachel's skirt. Her eyes stayed shut, her breathing shallow.

"I think it stopped," Rachel said, straining to see each rise and fall of Santana's chest, her heart clutched by fear whenever the next didn't come fast enough. She began to keep count, the increasing numbers and the dispatcher's level voice holding her together. Halfway through the double digits she heard the wail of a siren nearing her street, and in moments it was outside the apartment building.

"The ambulance is here," she said, picking up the phone and taking it off speaker.

"Great. Stay on the line with me until the paramedics are with you, and then I'll let them take over from there. You did a good job, Rachel. I hope your friend is okay."

Rachel thanked the dispatcher and said goodbye when a pair of EMT's emerged from the stairwell with their equipment. They jogged the short distance to where Santana lay, head cradled in Rachel's lap.

"How long's she been unconscious?" the taller one asked, kneeling to assess Santana's vital signs.

"A couple of minutes? But she had already passed out and wasn't breathing when I found her," Rachel said, as the other man readied the backboard and helped his partner roll Santana onto it. "I gave her CPR and she came to, but then she had a seizure or something. She's been like that since."

"What's her name?"

"Santana Lopez."

"Hey, Santana. I'm Joel." He spoke loudly, rubbing Santana's sternum with his knuckles. "What's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Santana scowled without opening her eyes and mumbled, "Fuck off."

"Whoa, looks like we've got ourselves a spitfire, Ben," Joel said, his movements all business despite the facetious tone. As he examined Santana's pupils with a penlight, he sent a series of rapid-fire questions in Rachel's direction, most of which she couldn't answer—

No, she didn't know what Santana had taken. No, she didn't know of any allergies. No, she wasn't aware of any medical conditions. No, she had no idea if Santana was suicidal.

She felt useless just standing there hugging her waist, nothing worthwhile to contribute. When the oxygen mask and various monitors were attached, the men strapping Santana to the backboard in preparation for the trek downstairs, Rachel finally thought of a way to be helpful. "Watch out for her left wrist," she said to Ben, who was folding Santana's arms across her chest. "She injured it about a week and a half ago, but hasn't had it treated."

Ben nodded and placed the limb down gingerly. Lifting Santana with ease, the men began their descent of the stairs, Rachel trailing behind and peering over their shoulders to be sure they used proper caution. They reached the curb outside without breaking a sweat, but they loaded Santana onto a stretcher in the back of the ambulance at a hectic pace when one of the monitors started beeping erratically. Ben hopped from the vehicle, leaving Joel in charge of Santana. Before the backdoors were closed, Joel called to his partner, "Respiratory arrest. Haul ass."

"Get in," Ben ordered, pointing Rachel to the passenger side. He was already behind the steering wheel, offering a hand up when she clambered onto the seat beside him.

Rachel blindly fastened her seatbelt and grasped her knees with both hands. None of what she imagined going on in the back of the ambulance was good. She stared at her soiled skirt, letting her thoughts be drowned out by the siren and the updates Ben radioed to the hospital. Afraid of distracting him with senseless chatter, she didn't say a word as he maneuvered the streets. She wasn't in the mood to talk, anyway.

They arrived at the hospital in less than five minutes. Rachel had to be told twice that she could follow Ben inside. She dreaded each step as she rounded the vehicle, expecting the worst as the rear doors were opened. Assisted by a small swarm of ER workers, Joel was lowering the stretcher to the ground and filling the group in on Santana's condition. Most of it was medical jargon that Rachel didn't understand, but she latched onto familiar words like "resuscitated" and "weak pulse." As they wheeled Santana through the automatic doors to the emergency room, Rachel tried to see around the men and women, their closed ranks blocking her view. She caught sight of a dark head as one of the nurses turned to ask Santana's name, age and any other pertinent information Rachel could offer. Then it was gone.

"You'll have to wait out here for now," the nurse said when she had her answers. "Let them know which patient you're with at the desk over there and they'll keep you posted."

The stretcher had disappeared through a corridor long ago, and when the nurse went with it, Rachel stood in a daze outside the doors that barred her entrance. It wasn't until Joel spoke that she realized he and Ben were still there in the lobby with her.

"She's young and strong," he said, giving Rachel's shoulder a pat. "Her chances are good."

Rachel thanked the men and shook their hands before they left, then wandered to the reception desk where an older woman glanced over her bifocals and smiled.

"May I help you?"

"I was told to let you know which patient I'm with," Rachel said, forgetting to smile back. "Her name's Santana Lopez."

"And yours?"

"Rachel Berry."

"Are you family?"

Rachel considered lying, in case non-family members didn't receive the same news and visiting rights as relatives. But she was too tired to concoct a believable story of how a Jewish girl and a Latina girl—close in age and sporting different last names—had become sisters. "No," she said, "but she doesn't really have anyone else."

"All right, Miss Berry. Take a seat and I'll let you know when I hear something."

"Okay." Rachel obediently moved towards the waiting area and a row of shabby chairs that were empty because, she guessed, they were farthest from the television and magazines. They faced the desk, though. She chose the one with the fewest cracks in its red upholstery and sat down, hands pinned beneath her thighs. Her legs and back ached, but she couldn't make herself recline in the seat. Upper body sagging, she continued to lean forward, ready to spring up at a moment's notice.

"It might be a while," the receptionist said to Rachel, her head tilted sympathetically. "Anything I could get you in the meantime?"

"Maybe some water? I'm kind of thirsty."

"Coming right up." The woman removed her bifocals and placed them on the desk as she left it. "Don't let anyone run away with my granny glasses, now."

She returned with a plastic cup that crackled as she handed it to Rachel, its flimsy sides threatening to collapse inward. Ice cubes bobbed on the surface of the water. "None too fancy, I'm afraid. But extra cold for you, my dear."

"Thank you."

"Mm-hmm. Holler if you need anything else."

Rachel wrapped her hands around the cup like it was a mug of hot cocoa. She lost track of how long she gazed down at the water without drinking it, but the ice had melted before her first sip. Finding she wasn't thirsty after all, she set the water on an adjacent coffee table. Then she put her face in her hands and cried.


	6. Talk to Me

**A/N:** Special thanks to my best good friend Gleeks09 for giving me a shout-out in the latest chapter of her fic _Changed for the Better_. She's got some great Rachel-centric stories y'all should check out. And as always, please R&R. I'm like Tinker Bell's fanfic-writing cousin. I need reviews to live. Thanks!

* * *

><p><em>Dusty words lying under carpets<em>  
><em>Seldom heard<em>  
><em>Well, must you keep your secrets<em>  
><em>Locked inside, hidden deep from view<em>  
><em>Don't seem all that hard<em>  
><em>Is it all that tough<em>  
><em>Now I've shown you all my cards<em>  
><em>Well, isn't that enough?<em>

- Stevie Nicks, "Talk to Me" (Chas Sandford)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 5: Talk to Me<strong>

_For the love of God, answer your phone_, Rachel thought.

The obnoxious ringtone—a rap song prolific in its use of the words "bitches" and "hoes"—played on as she sat up, rubbing her eyes and wondering why her neck was so stiff. She squinted at the huge plate glass windows that lined the hospital entrance, her heart skipping a beat when she saw it was nearly dark outside. The cup of water was still on the table in front of her, no emptier than before, but the receptionist who brought it had been swapped for a tiny, glowering Asian woman.

It dawned on Rachel that she had fallen asleep. And that the offensive lyrics were coming from a bulge at her hip. Sheepishly, she turned away from the desk and reached into her skirt pocket, fishing out the two cell phones she couldn't remember storing there. Santana's rang louder than ever, drawing more stares from the bored-looking crowd of magazine readers and television watchers. Thanks to several unanswered calls to the number over the past few days, Rachel knew its voicemail only kicked in after a dozen or so rings. She flipped the phone open.

"Hello?"

"Hey, sexy girl," a man said in a low, sensual tone. "Can't talk long. Wife's in the shower. But I haven't been able to get you out of my head since the other day. You and that tight little pussy." He made a soft noise between his teeth and tongue.

A nauseous feeling formed in the pit of Rachel's stomach. She started to hang up, but as she listened to him breathe, practically able to feel the warmth of it against her neck, disgust gave way to anger. She thought of the emptiness in Santana's eyes when she had described the things she'd done with this man. Or at least someone like him.

She thought of Santana's gentle embrace after they had made love on the roof...

The way she twined Rachel's hair around her fingers, letting it unravel in loose waves...

Her laugh, surprisingly girlish...

"Karma?"

"How was your daughter's birthday?" Rachel asked.

"Stimulating." He chuckled. "Lots of sophomores in bikinis calling me 'Mr. Dougherty.' We're gonna have some role-playing to do next time you visit."

_Gotcha. _"That so?"

"Yeah, and guess what. My wife's taking Siobhan out of town tomorrow on some church retreat thing, so I'll have the place to myself. Wanna come over and keep a lonely daddy company?"

Rachel gave a snide little laugh. "Oh, you'll have company, but it won't be Karma. It'll be the police hauling your sorry ass off to jail for solicitation."

"Who the fuck is this?"

He didn't sound very turned on anymore.

"Just somebody with Karma's best interest at heart."

"Well, then I'd think twice about turning me in, you stupid bitch," he growled. "What she and I did was consensual. You send the cops after me, I'll tell them where that whore does business."

_Damn._ Rachel hadn't stopped to consider that. She chewed her bottom lip, beginning to tremble with nerves instead of rage. But as she looked down at her plain skirt and old-fashioned loafers, she reminded herself of an important fact—she was an actress. And any actress worth her salt knew how to improvise. "Go ahead," she said coolly. "I'm sure they'd be happy to bust a strip club for employment of a minor. Of course, they'll add statutory rape to your list of charges. Who do you think a judge will go easier on: a scared teenage runaway or a married man who likes little girls?"

He made a scoffing sound, but hesitated before saying, "Bullshit. No way in hell is she under eighteen. Uh-uh, no kid knows how to do all the stuff she knew how to do."

"She looked pretty convincing in your daughter's uniform, didn't she?"

"You're lying," he said, the connection going hollow on his end, as if he had quickly moved from one space to another. A door shut in the background and he spoke in a harsh whisper. "You probably don't even know where I live. Good luck telling the cops how to find me."

"I've got your phone number. And if that's not enough, they could find you through your daughter," Rachel said, feeling a twinge of guilt. The girl was innocent; but the father was not. "How many sophomores named Siobhan Dougherty could there possibly be attending private school in this part of the city?" She held her breath, hoping she hadn't embellished too much.

He didn't seem to think so. He exhaled shakily.

"It would be a shame for her to find out what a pervert her father is," Rachel added, mostly because she meant it. "Unless she already has firsthand knowledge."

"Christ, I would never—..." He threw something and rummaged through a drawer. "What do you want? You want money? I can pay you."

"I don't want your goddamn money."

"Then _what_?"

"Just stay away from Karma," Rachel said, speaking only as herself now. "Don't call her. Don't try to see her. Don't even think about her."

"Done."

"Enjoy your Sunday alone, Mr. Dougherty."

Rachel pushed end and tossed the phone onto the chair beside her as if it were contaminated. She glared at it, arms crossed, until her heart stopped pounding and resumed a normal rhythm. Then she slowly picked it up again to look at the clock, her satisfaction at telling off a complete asshole short-lived—7:24PM. Almost three and a half hours with no news. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she hurried over to inquire at the desk. The new receptionist wasn't any friendlier up-close than she had been at a distance.

"You'll just have to wait like everyone else, Miss Berry," she said when Rachel insinuated negligence one time too many. "If there's an update on Miss Lopez's status, I will give it to you."

Grudgingly, Rachel returned to fidgeting in her seat, trading the cell phones back and forth between her hands. She spotted a vending machine in the far corner, but the prospect of Cheetos, or even a healthier snack like SunChips, didn't appeal to her. Nor did food in general. Needing some kind of distraction, however, she began to scroll through the options on Santana's phone, looking for games. When she came across the "Contacts" icon, she selected it instead. No intentions of snooping, she planned just to get a peek at where her name fell on the list. But it wasn't much of a search.

_Eden_  
><em>Home<em>  
><em>Rachel<em>  
><em>Tulsa<em>  
><em>V. Dougherty<em>

Temptation to delete the last name was overcome by her curiosity about the number marked "Home." She highlighted it on the screen, finding that 419—the Lima area code—were indeed its first three digits. She made a hasty decision, telling herself she would deal with the consequences later.

A woman with a light Hispanic accent answered the phone after two rings. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Lopez?"

"This is she."

Rachel took a deep breath. No going back now. "You probably won't remember me, ma'am, but my name is Rachel Berry. I went to school with your daughter. Actually, she's the reason I'm calling..."

xxx

"Dr. Goodman will be right with you."

Poised on the edge of a swivel chair, Rachel nodded reflexively as the nurse left her alone, closing the door. She had been led from the waiting area into this cracker box of a room without one mention of Santana. Now she was experiencing her first attack of claustrophobia since getting stuffed into a locker after 8th grade gym class. Graphic posters depicting the human anatomy lined each wall, offering no solace. A crucifix near the light switch would have to do. She stared at it, her lips moving in silent prayer, until the doctor entered.

"Is she dead?" Rachel blurted as he reached to shake her hand.

The doctor's bushy gray eyebrows shot up for a moment as he rolled another chair over and sat facing Rachel. "No," he said, his expression softening, though he spoke gravely. "Miss Lopez is not dead. But she is very fortunate to be alive. She had a toxic amount of cocaine in her system. That, combined with the alcohol she was drinking, interfered with her respiration and heart rate. I understand you performed CPR on her before she was brought in?"

"Yes," Rachel said, still fixated on the part about Santana being alive. Tears of relief blurred her vision and she fought to get a hold on her emotions as the doctor continued.

"Well, you deserve a gold star, then. In a lot of these cases the patient dies from lack of oxygen. Those who survive often have brain damage or other organ failure from not receiving urgent enough care. Your friend also ran the risk of a heart attack, stroke, coma..." Dr. Goodman placed his hands on top of the clipboard in his lap, fingers splayed. "I've already told all this to Miss Lopez, but she's a bit groggy and may need to hear it again. If she's got an addiction, it's imperative she seek further treatment. We'll be keeping her for observation at least overnight, but when she's released it's up to her. Talk to her about getting some help?"

"I'll try."

Dr. Goodman creased his lips in a way that suggested a smile, without actually being one. "Her left wrist is fractured as well. Although, it appeared that injury was a few days old?"

"She fell and landed on it wrong a little over a week ago," Rachel said, hoping he would leave it at that. Lying to a creep on the phone was one thing, but lying to a physician who looked like he could be her grandfather might prove disastrous.

"I see. Surprised the pain didn't bring her in sooner," he commented, shaking his head. "It was a clean break, but it did require a cast. She needs to take it easy for the next six weeks or so. Prescribing painkillers is out of the question, I'm afraid. She'll have a lot of discomfort."

Being right about the wrist brought Rachel no satisfaction. At age nine, while pretending to be Brigitta von Trapp from _The Sound of Music_, she had broken her arm falling backwards down a flight of concrete stairs outside the post office, her reenactment of "Do Re Mi" cut short by a sickening snap. She remembered the sound and the pain as if it were yesterday. But at least she'd gotten some medication afterwards.

"If you're ready, I can take you to see her now," said Dr. Goodman.

Rachel got to her feet, anxious to leave the stuffy room. She followed the doctor through a maze of corridors, until he halted outside an open doorway and motioned to it with his clipboard.

"I'll let you two have some time alone before I look in on her again." He gave a courteous nod, then lowered his voice to add, "It's likely she'll be tired and moody. I wouldn't take anything she says too personally."

When he had gone, Rachel spent a moment fussing with her hair and clothes, though it was her courage that needed the boost. The doctor's warning didn't trouble her too much—she had years of practice dealing with Santana's scathing remarks. But she'd rarely visited anyone in the hospital, least of all a friend who had almost died right in front of her. She peeked around the doorjamb before edging past it with small, measured steps.

A fixture behind the bed emitted a weak glow that kept the room from total darkness. Even in the dull lighting, Santana looked unnaturally pale. Eyes closed, she was propped against a pillow, the head of the bed elevated at a slight angle. Her arms were at her sides, an IV in the right one, a white cast that fell inches shy of her elbow on the left one. The oxygen tube was crooked beneath her nose, and Rachel had to resist an urge to straighten it.

Quietly, she lifted a chair that stood against the opposite wall, carrying it to Santana's bedside. She lowered it and took a seat, starting when she glanced up to find Santana watching her.

"I was trying not to wake you," Rachel said, rising from the chair, stepping closer. Unsure of what to do with her hands, she touched the edge of the stiff mattress, withdrew them, then put them back.

"I wasn't asleep," came out somewhere between a whisper and a croak. Santana cleared her throat, struggling to swallow. She fiddled with the oxygen tube, dropping her hand in frustration when the sensor clipped to her index finger got in the way. "Just resting," she muttered.

Rachel shifted her weight from foot to foot. "How are you feeling?"

"Peachy."

At least Santana still had her sarcasm intact. It was comforting in an odd sort of way. Tension easing a bit, Rachel reached over and adjusted the tube so that air flowed evenly into both of Santana's nostrils. She made sure it wasn't looped too tightly behind the ears, and she smoothed down a few wisps of black hair, though all of it was in dire need of combing. The snaps of Santana's hospital gown had come undone, exposing one narrow shoulder; as Rachel fastened them, Santana gazed up at her with intent dark eyes. Waiting, waiting.

"You scared the hell out of me," Rachel finally said, releasing the words like a sigh. Her fingers crept along the thin, drab blanket until they were nestled inside Santana's right hand—no pressure, just enough contact to reassure her that the girl wouldn't slip away at any moment.

"I didn't mean to." Santana shrugged, indicating she didn't know what else to say.

Rachel tilted her head, asking gently, "What did you mean to do?"

"I dunno. As much blow as humanly possible, I guess." Santana attempted to smirk, but it turned out lopsided and sad. "I don't really remember," she said, serious this time.

"Any of it?"

Santana's brow wrinkled as she thought it over. "I remember you being there at some point. And you told me to sit down or stay put?"

"That's when we were on the phone. You called me when I was coming home from my audition," Rachel said, gesturing to her atypical clothing. "You were agitated and not making a whole lot of sense. I thought you were drunk at first, but you mentioned doing 'other stuff' and quoted 'Gold Dust Woman.' I know the song's supposedly about drugs, so I put two and two together..."

Santana remained impassive, as if listening to the story of a person she had never met and whose fate did not concern her.

"I didn't know where you were, though. So I was asking questions, and I could hear you struggling to breathe. When I figured out you were on the roof of my building, I told you to sit down by the door because I was afraid you'd fall or... tumble down the stairs. That's when you dropped the whisky bottle and started gagging and wheezing. Then my phone battery died." Rachel paused for air and shuddered as she relived the chilling moment. She envied Santana's ability to block it out. "I've never run so fast in my life. You weren't breathing when I got to you. I dialed 911 and started CPR. You came to, had a seizure, and when the paramedics were putting you in the ambulance you stopped breathing again. Joel resuscitated you, and this is the first I've seen you since we got here."

Silence filled the room as Rachel waited for the gravity of the situation to sink in, for a clue that Santana understood how much danger she had actually been in.

"How was your audition?" Santana asked after a while, her face harder to read than ever. Her eyes—usually the betrayers of her true feelings—were bleary and void of depth, the irises indistinguishable from the pupils.

She resembled a specter with those eyes, her lank hair and the deathly pallor upon her cheek. Rachel looked away, studying the monitor by the bed, its colorful zigzagged lines and numbers meant to confirm that a body functioned as it should.

"It went well. They seemed interested," Rachel said halfheartedly, her voice catching. She turned back to Santana with an imploring expression, a firmer grip on her hand. "Didn't you hear anything else that I said?"

"I heard."

"Don't you care?"

"Of course I care," Santana snapped. "I wasn't trying to kill myself, if that's what you think. I just... I wanted..." Her legs moved restlessly beneath the blanket and she flopped her head against the pillow, exasperated. "There was too much shit happening at once. That skeezy pedophile freaked me out, then that look on your face when I left Roma's... and there I was, back to living out of a dressing room. And my fucking wrist hurt so bad..."

The effort of forming a coherent sentence took its toll on Santana, and she began to tremble. A single tear slipped from the corner of each eye, but she was either too exhausted or too dehydrated for crying, because no others followed. "After the restaurant, I ran into Tulsa when I dropped my bag off at the club," she said. "I've been pretty good about not scoring off her lately, but I'd had such a shitty day."

Guilt gnawed at Rachel as she listened to the explanation and filled in the gaps herself. She'd suspected Santana wasn't just storing her belongings at the club that day they became roommates. And she had wondered if marijuana was the only drug Santana ever used. Fear of being impolite or too square had kept her from broaching either subject, but maybe talking about them would have helped.

One small comfort was Santana's disgust for Mr. Dougherty. But even that got overshadowed by a question Rachel didn't wish to know the answer to. She asked it anyway. "You do remember that all happened on Wednesday, right? And this is Saturday."

"It is?"

"Oh, my God," Rachel said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Santana, anything could have happened to you since then. What if I hadn't been able to get to you? What if someone like Dougherty had hurt you?"

"Look, I fucked up, okay? Can we please—" Santana frowned, lost in thought as she used her shoulder to wipe the teardrops from below her chin without letting go of Rachel. She stopped shaking. "Wait, how do you know his name?"

"Who?"

"Dougherty. I never told you his name."

_This she remembers._

"He called your phone about an hour ago," Rachel admitted reluctantly. "We sort of... had words. He said the most vile things, and I lost my temper. I don't think you'll have him to worry about anymore."

"What the hell did you say?"

"That you were underage and I'd have him arrested for statutory rape." Rachel delivered the response quickly, then counteracted it with one of the best weapons in her arsenal: the scolded puppy look. She had discovered its power at a young age and used it mercilessly on her fathers.

"And he believed you?"

"I can be very convincing."

Santana produced a scratchy laugh that began as genuine amusement but ended on a bitter note. "There goes another customer," she said with a deep, weary sigh.

"You don't need him. Or any of those sick bastards." Rachel wrapped Santana's hand in both of her own, holding it as though it were a baby bird that had fallen from the nest. "You're so much better than any of that."

"If you're gonna start singing 'Roxanne,' go ahead and pull the plug."

This time Rachel didn't have to fake her wounded expression. No matter how prepared she was to be lashed out at, or how well she knew the meanness compensated for a vulnerable side, it would always hurt to have her sincerity mocked. "Well, look at where it's gotten you so far," she said, putting her feelings aside and relying on logic. "This can't be how you want to live your life."

The bed sheets rustled like paper as Santana tilted her head back and aimed a murderous glare at the ceiling. When it almost seemed she had no intention of replying, she raised her left arm in its new plaster cocoon and said, "You can relax, it's not like I'll be able to work in this thing, anyway. Nobody wants to see a stripper or a hooker in a cast. That's just pathetic." She rested her arm across her abdomen, gaze drifting down and settling on Rachel again. Her eyelids drooped heavily. "My illustrious careers are over," she added through a yawn, "and I'm too tired to care."

"Oh, I should let you get some sleep. But before I go..." Rachel tried to remain calm, though she had been dreading this moment for the past hour. She hoped Santana's mellowed state would make what she was about to say easier. "There's something I should tell you. I, um, made another call with your phone a little while ago. When I still didn't know how you were doing."

"Hm?" Santana blinked slowly.

"I called your parents."

Santana's eyes popped open, their clarity startling. Not once in the last week had Rachel seen them so bright, nothing—no bruise or sunglasses, alcohol or drugs, lust or tears—clouding their surface. But they flashed with a dangerous white heat. "What?" said Santana.

"I really only talked to your mom, but she filled your dad in. They're flying out of Columbus early tomorrow morning." Rachel chewed nervously at the inside of her cheek. "They'll be here around ten."

Santana snatched her hand away from both of Rachel's and clapped it over her heart, sitting forward with such abruptness she jarred the bed. "Jesus Christ, Rachel, what the hell?" she demanded. "How could you? How the _fuck_ could you?"

Rachel had to force herself not to shrink back. She folded her arms and hunched her shoulders protectively. "I thought you were dying," she said, hating how like a child she sounded. Standing up a tad straighter, she continued with more authority: "No, you were dying."

"And you thought, what? Great time to pawn her off on someone else?"

"Santana, I had to roll your body over to get you breathing. You were facedown in your own vomit. And I couldn't do anything but watch when you had that seizure with your head in my lap. You may not remember any of it, but I do." Rachel pointed her finger between them for emphasis. "So when I was sitting down there in the waiting room thinking I'd never see you alive again, I decided your parents ought to know what was happening."

Strength dissipating, Santana sank against the bed and focused on a spot on the wall behind Rachel. "How much did you tell them?" she asked, stone-faced.

"All I said was that you'd been taken to the emergency room in serious condition. I didn't tell them about the overdose. Or anything else." When there was no reaction, Rachel added softly, "Your mom cried."

Santana set her jaw, back teeth clenching.

"She said they haven't stopped looking for you since the day you—"

"Get out."

Rachel gripped the side rail of the bed and leaned into Santana's line of sight. "Please—"

"I said get out." Santana turned away, her back to Rachel, the saline bag thrashing like a hooked fish as she yanked the IV tube along with her. She waited for the sound of footsteps, and when they didn't come she mustered the closest thing to a shout her feeble health would allow: "Get the fuck out!"

Rachel spun around too quickly and clipped the wooden chair leg behind her. She winced, shoved the chair aside, kept moving. In the doorway she hesitated, wanting to look back, but she limped down the hall instead, a hand cupped over her throbbing knee.


	7. Beautiful Child

**A/N: **Thanks for the chapter 5 reviews and for sticking with me so far. I probably sound like a broken record saying that before each chapter, but oh well. You guys rock. :)**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>I'm not a child anymore<em>  
><em>I'm tall enough<em>  
><em>To reach for the stars<em>  
><em>I'm old enough<em>  
><em>To love you from afar<em>  
><em>Too trusting, yes<em>  
><em>But then women usually are<em>

- Fleetwood Mac, "Beautiful Child" (Stevie Nicks)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 6: Beautiful Child<strong>

The toast was the texture and flavor of cardboard; the apple juice, in a cup the size of a baby food jar, looked like urine and was approximately the same temperature. _Make that soggy cardboard_, Santana thought, poking the bread where it had gone soft in the middle from a thick layer of butter. She dropped it on top of the other triangular slice she hadn't touched, dusted the crumbs from her fingers and pushed aside the tray her breakfast had been wheeled in on. An upset stomach, exhaustion and a headache that bordered on a migraine left her with little appetite, especially for swill. Only a sense of duty—she couldn't remember her last meal—prompted her to order the food in the first place.

She wrestled with the tray for a moment, trying to steer it parallel to the bed, but the wheels doubled in on themselves and swerved towards the visitor's chair nearby. Muttering a curse, she pushed until her strength gave out, then settled for glaring at the chair that wouldn't budge. It was still in the same position Rachel had left it during her hasty retreat the night before. And still just as empty.

Most of the previous day was a blur to Santana, but she couldn't forget how harshly she'd treated Rachel. Instead of sleeping she spent half the night feeling like an asshole for sending the girl away. Even after all the drama of the past week, Rachel had come to Santana's aid—saved her life, for God's sake—just to have abuse hurled at her for doing what any reasonable person would have done. Santana wanted to apologize, to explain that she'd spoken out of fear. She wanted Rachel there to hold her hand. But now she doubted they would ever see each other again.

_One more thing to add to your list of screw ups_, Santana told herself. She regarded her ugly white cast with disdain and balled a fist until the ache in her forearm became unbearable. She wouldn't even look at the IV in the other arm, the mere idea of a needle penetrating her skin enough to make her cringe. Nevertheless, she could feel its pinch and the irritating pull of the tape that secured it. How ironic that her preference for snorting cocaine, rather than injecting it, was partly due to her aversion to needles. That, and it seemed safer. Less addictive, somehow. Junkies were the ones who died in crack houses with syringes plunged into their veins. They were the ones who, if they were lucky enough to wake up, found themselves in a hospital bed, no clue how they got there...

_Santana bought the drugs from Tulsa planning to do a few lines and forget about her whole shitty existence for a while. Not the most brilliant plan ever devised, she knew, but she needed to get her frayed nerves under control. It began with finding the note from Rachel, asking her to dinner at Roma's—she really did believe she was about to be tossed out of another home. (And she couldn't blame Rachel. When someone you sleep with acts like a bitch and ignores you afterwards, of course you get rid of them. How could Santana admit there was more to it than just sex, though? How could she open her heart to another person who might not reciprocate?) So she stupidly accepted Dougherty's proposition, thinking it would be quick and easy money. But, as he was on top of her, sweating and grunting, pictures of his cute, baby-faced daughter and her friends smiling down from the walls, Santana felt ripped apart. He didn't harm her in any way, yet she had broken all the same. She cried and chain-smoked the entire walk to the restaurant, trying to come up with reasons Rachel should give her a second chance, finding none. _(We were wrong nicknaming you Belladonna, Rachel. I'm the one who's poison.) _And what was her solution? What it had always been. Treat people like shit so they don't see how much you're hurting. Rachel offered Santana the exact thing she was afraid to hope for, and Santana still blew it. She fucked over the one person she'd truly cared about in years. An even bigger wreck when she left the restaurant, she made a beeline for Tulsa the moment she arrived at the Gate, duffel bag on her shoulder. Since she had already ruined everything else, it didn't seem to matter if she got fired or if she used after promising herself to quit. Twenty minutes later she was blissed-out in the bathroom of the club, her last clear memory. Until yesterday._

It terrified Santana that two days of her life were entirely unaccounted for. She wondered, too, why she had gone up on that roof. The question haunted her through the night, and the daylight had brought no answers, only more anxiety.

She peered at the clock mounted on the wall, its ominous ticking and a hum of medical equipment all that kept the room from total silence. After waking from a fitful sleep at 7AM, she had avoided checking the time. A visit from the doctor, then the nurse taking her breakfast order and delivering it, provided plenty of distraction. But now there were just her thoughts and those boldfaced numbers to keep her company, and they were determined she know two hours remained till her parents' arrival.

Considering what to tell her mother and father made Santana nauseated. Not a day went by without her thinking of them or longing for the courage to pick up the phone and call them. But she had disappointed them enough by being a lesbian. It would kill them to know about the stripping, the drugs, the prostitution. They were better off believing she had run away and found happiness, or even that she was dead. The longer she dwelled on it she began to wish she had died, and that frightened her more than everything else combined.

A knock at the partially open door went through her like a gunshot. She quickly checked the time, afraid it had slipped away from her again, but it was no later than before. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice tight and higher than usual.

"May I come in?" And after a pause, "It's Rachel."

Santana felt a rush of relief akin to that first hit of cocaine. But instead of euphoria, this one was followed by shame. Rachel sounded uncertain she would be allowed to enter. Sitting up straighter in the bed, Santana pulled the covers closer around her waist and swept the hair off her shoulder, fingers catching in its matted ends. She tugged them loose, wincing, and said, "Yeah." _Stop saying yeah._ "Come in."

Inching past the door without opening it any further, Rachel stood with her back pressed against it. Her arms encircled a large canvas bag she could probably have fit herself inside of, if she took the notion. She wore a yellow headband in her hair, but it was the only cheerful thing about her.

They gazed at each other for a long time like shy children peeking from behind their mothers' skirts. Santana knew she should be the one to break the awkward silence, since she had created it. "I didn't think you'd come back," she said, trying to imply her approval with a tone, a look.

"I'll leave if you want," Rachel said, her hand already on the doorknob. "I'm sorry—"

"No, stay." Santana couldn't hide her desperation, the prospect of being along in the grim hospital room for another second sending her into a panic. "Please. I want you to stay. I just didn't expect you to wanna see me anymore after last night. But I'm glad you're here."

Rachel turned and eyed Santana, gauging the sincerity of the request. Then a faint smile appeared as she ducked her head and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. "I never really left. There's a nice waiting room on this floor. Right around the corner, actually," she said, aiming her thumb in the direction she meant. "I saw the nurse bring your breakfast, so I knew you were awake."

"You slept out there?" Santana asked, incredulous.

"Yeah. Well, if you can call it sleeping. I didn't get much rest."

"Me neither."

Rachel rocked back and forth onto the balls of her feet, but didn't step away from the door. "Are you... feeling any better?" she said, obviously choosing her words with great care.

Santana made a small, noncommittal noise. She didn't know how to explain that, although her body might be recovering from the shock it went through, she was sicker and more twisted up inside than ever. "The doctor came by a little while ago. He said my blood pressure's still kind of high. If it doesn't go down soon, he wants me to stay another night."

"Oh." Rachel gave a sympathetic nod.

"What happened to your knees?" Santana asked, noting the Band-Aids crisscrossed over the inflamed skin on both of Rachel's kneecaps, a quarter-sized bruise on the right side. She had wanted to change the subject, but immediately guessed the answer to her own question and wished she had kept her mouth shut.

And sure enough.

"Um, it's from yesterday. Kneeling on the concrete. And there was a lot of glass," Rachel said, glancing past the hem of her belted shirtdress. "Then I ran into the chair last night when—... well, anyway, I didn't even notice they were like that until this morning."

Now it was Santana's turn to say, "Oh."

They were headed for another uncomfortable lull, but Rachel rescued them with an admirable attempt at lighthearted conversation. "Okay, I lied," she said, outwardly gearing up for a chatter session. "I did go home about an hour ago, but only to shower and change clothes." She patted the bag in her arms. "And I grabbed some things I thought you might need. I know my style's not really your cup of tea, but I figured you'd want a clean outfit when you do get released." From within the bag, she procured a neatly folded pair of pants and a shirt, displaying them on her upturned palm.

"At least it's not argyle," Santana teased.

"God, no." Rachel made a face. "Or worse, pink."

They exchanged brief smiles at each others' jokes, and Santana waved Rachel closer. "What else you got in there, Mary Poppins?"

Finally, as if an invisible barrier had been removed, Rachel walked over to the bed and pushed the chair towards the wall with her hip. She set aside the clothing and straightened the unwieldy breakfast tray before plopping her bag onto it, making a point of looking at the cold, uneaten toast. "Well," she said, unzipping a second compartment and reaching for something that crinkled. She withdrew a cereal bag, its excess space rolled tight and secured with a clothespin. Even without a box, the cereal—plain pieces mixed with bright marshmallows shaped like rainbows, horseshoes, four-leaf clovers—was instantly recognizable. "A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down," she concluded in singsong.

Santana had the urge to grab Rachel's face and kiss it. "Ooh, gimme," she said, snatching up the bag instead. She unfurled it with one hand and dug in, enthusiastic as a six-year-old on Christmas morning. She dropped a blue crescent moon onto her tongue, sucking until it dissolved. Magically delicious. All at once, she became ravenous and scooped out an entire handful, emptying it into her mouth.

"Sorry, couldn't fit the milk in here," Rachel said, watching with amusement.

"Thmafs mkayf."

Rachel reached into the bag again, this time pulling out a few items and holding them up one by one: a paddle brush, an eyeliner pencil and mascara, red nail polish, body mist, cherry lip gloss. Santana munched slowly, observing the presentation, then intercepted the spray bottle and sniffed the nozzle. She recognized its floral scent from the sheets on Rachel's bed. Tilting her chin up, she spritzed her neck and grazed her wrist against it; she misted the air in front of her and leaned forward. "Is this your subtle way of telling me I smell bad and look like shit?" she asked, smirking as she passed the bottle back.

"I just thought you might want to freshen up before your mom and dad come." Rachel glanced down, as if mentioning Santana's parents while making eye contact had the same capacity to blind her as gazing into a solar eclipse.

Santana fiddled with the nail polish that rested on the edge of the bed, along with the other makeup. Her last manicure had started to erode days before her binge, and now it was a tacky, clichéd mess of chipped red paint. The attention to detail it must have taken to notice such a thing, even in the midst of chaos, impressed her. She tapped Rachel's arm with the wand end of the polish, urging her to look up, and said, "Then quit standing there, and fix me. I'm disabled, remember?"

Brightening, Rachel took the bottle and hammered it lightly against her palm to mix the contents. "Does it hurt very badly?" she asked as Santana extended her left hand, still shoveling in mouthfuls of Lucky Charms with the right.

Santana waited until the cap was unscrewed—the lacquer-coated brush poised less than an inch from her thumb—to give a sharp, anguished gasp. She resumed chewing as if nothing had happened, while Rachel, white as a ghost, recovered from nearly leaping out of her skin. "Kidding," Santana said impishly, sticking a pink heart marshmallow to her outstretched tongue.

"Evil."

"It hurts like a son of a bitch." Santana rooted around in the cereal bag for a moment, crumpling it shut when she found the piece she wanted. She pinched the shooting star between her forefinger and thumb and offered it to Rachel. "But it's nothing I can't handle."

"Lima Heights Adjacent," Rachel said, as if the name alone connoted a high tolerance for pain. She leaned forward to capture the treat in her lips, hands occupied with the polish bottle and brush.

Failing to contain a smile, Santana wiped sugary crumbs on the blanket and turned to give Rachel better access, fingers splayed against the mattress. "Damn straight," she said, adding a firm nod.

The first few strokes were tentative, but once there were no more fake-outs or actual cries of agony, Rachel expertly applied a layer of red to Santana's left hand. The new color wasn't a perfect match to the old, but close enough that no one would notice the difference unless they were looking for it. Santana blew on her wet nails as Rachel began on the right, gently lifting each finger this time and making sure not a single drop of red met with skin.

"I hope you won't be too upset, but... I talked to your mom again," Rachel said, keeping her attention on the delicate pinkie she was touching-up. "Just to let her know you were stable. So she wouldn't have to worry as much." She surveyed her work, then recapped the bottle and set it on the tray.

"They are still coming, aren't they?"

"Of course they are. They both can't wait to see you."

Santana relaxed a little, surprised by how quickly her pulse had spiked and how readily the tears had pricked at her eyes. She took a deep breath through her nose, the oxygen tube not seeming like such a nuisance anymore. "We'll see how long that lasts," she said, her attempt at a humorous delivery falling flat.

"Maybe it won't be as bad as you think," Rachel said, her features so soft and kind that Santana almost believed her for a second.

"Yeah." Careful not to smudge the red polish, Santana picked up the eyeliner and circled it in front of her face. "It's not everyday I trust somebody with this," she said, and held out the black pencil. "Don't go getting creative."

"I'll try to restrain myself."

At Rachel's behest, Santana closed her eyes and sat perfectly still while subjected to a lamentation about cosmetics—none of Rachel's concealer went with Santana's skin tone, making the decision what makeup to bring a tricky one—with a happy conclusion: just a smidgen of color on the eyes and lips would look more natural anyway. She only half-listened, her thoughts straying to how tenderly Rachel touched her cheekbone, her eyelid, her temple. It felt good to have physical contact that, for once, wasn't about sex. When she opened her eyes, bottom lids receiving the same painstaking outline as the top, she caught herself watching Rachel instead of the ceiling. And she stifled a giggle as Rachel, mouth formed into a small "O" of concentration, daubed the mascara on her eyelashes like a painter of fine china.

"There," Rachel said, close enough that tiny gold flecks were visible in her deep brown irises.

(It crossed Santana's mind that she finally understood what Stevie Nicks had meant when she penned the lyric, "_Your shinin' autumn, ocean crashin'..._")

After a quick swipe from the tube of lip gloss, Santana checked the results in a compact Rachel handed over. "Not bad, Berry," she said, then aimed the mirror towards her hairline, nose crinkling in disgust. "But it'll take a freakin' exorcist to tame this shit."

"Give me one second."

"Umm, that was a joke," Santana called as Rachel hurried from the room.

Moments later she returned with a small plastic basin of water and a washcloth—compliments of the nurse at the desk, she explained, when Santana gave her a curious look—and put them on the tray, moving her bag to the chair. She dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out and directed Santana to turn around.

Santana quirked a brow. "Time for my sponge bath?"

"I need to wash out some of the gunk at the ends. It'll help with the tangles," Rachel said, in a no-nonsense manner. "Now, turn."

Santana gave an obligatory roll of her eyes, but faced the other direction as best she could without leaning on her cast or ruining her nails. It was complicated, and she rested her back heavily against the side rail of the bed, worn out from exertion. Hating how slow and debilitated she felt, she muttered a curse under her breath, then fell into a pensive silence as strands of hair were gathered from her shoulders and beneath the neckline of her gown.

"Let me know if I pull too hard or if you want me stop," Rachel said, wetting down snarls and scrubbing the especially stubborn ones between the damp cloth. She did this for several minutes, soaking the cloth, wringing it out and cleaning away dried blood, vomit and alcohol.

They didn't speak, the splash of water and the vigorous rustle of terrycloth noise enough for both of them. As a child, Santana had loathed having her full, long hair detangled, the sight of a comb in her mother's hand instigating countless tantrums. But she didn't complain when Rachel switched to the brush, first toiling at knotted ends, then working upward until the nylon bristles caught fewer and fewer snags. She was coaxed into a trancelike state by the repetitive strokes, the sensation of Rachel's hands gliding over and through her hair, and even the occasional tug that made her scalp prickle. She began to wonder how someone who had grown up without a mother became skilled at such a maternal task. She wanted to stay like this for hours.

But the bristles passed from root to tip easily now. Santana knew if she was going to make her request, she should do it while her back was turned. She might not have the courage to say it face to face.

"Rachel?" she asked just above a whisper.

"Hm?"

"Would you, um... would you stay with me when my parents get here? I don't think I'm ready to talk to them alone."

Rachel's surprise, indicated by a barely perceptible slowing of the brush, lasted no more than a moment. "I'll stay as long as you'd like," she said, smoothing the hair down Santana's back with her palm. She repeated the motion once more, then laid a hand on Santana's shoulder, squeezing. "All done."

Shifting until she rested against the pillow again, Santana reached for Rachel's hand before it moved away. She curled her fingers around it lightly and said, "Thanks."

"The tangles looked worse than they actually were."

"No, I mean... thank you... for everything."

Rachel started to respond, couldn't get it out, and simply nodded.

They settled for exchanging meaningful gazes rather than clumsy words, and they were in the middle of a lingering one when someone in the doorway announced his presence by clearing his throat. Santana glanced over, expecting to see her doctor, but found herself staring at a handsome dark-haired man in a smart blazer and slacks. At first she didn't recognize him behind the salt-and-pepper beard, but there was no mistaking the raven-haired beauty at his side. Santana could only hope that age would be as kind to her as it had been to this woman.

"Mom," Santana said breathlessly, and then—wishing the term "daddy" hadn't been spoiled for her by the experience with Dougherty—"Dad."

For what seemed hours, they stared at her as though she were a complete stranger. Santana felt like she had plunged into deep water, the weight crushing down on her, restricting air and movement. But all at once she broke the surface. Her mother came forward first, arms thrown open wide, wrapping Santana in a bone-crunching hug and thanking Jesus in rapid, tearful Spanish. She cupped her hands to Santana's cheeks, bombarding her with kisses and English: "Baby, you're too thin. And look how pale you are. Haven't you been taking care of yourself? Daddy and I have been worried to death."

"Let the girl breathe, Estella," said Gary Lopez, stepping up next to his wife. But even as the words were leaving his mouth, he swooped in and collected Santana into his strong arms, nearly lifting her off the bed. His chest quaked with unshed tears, and it took him awhile to let her go. When he did, setting her down as if she were breakable, he rested his hand on top of her head for just a moment, the way he had when she was very small. "_Mija_," he murmured.

"I— I didn't think you guys would be here till ten," Santana choked out. It was a poor excuse for a greeting. But what did one say to her parents after skipping town without so much as a goodbye and not contacting them for years? Anything she said would be inadequate. At least if she kept them talking instead of bawling, she could stave off her own tears.

"Your mother pitched a fit until they gave us seats on an earlier flight," Gary said, his chuckle sounding forced. "We're lucky we didn't get arrested. She yelled at the ticket agent in Spanish for half an hour."

"Oh, it was twenty minutes, tops," Estella said, waving off the exaggeration. "And never mind that." She crowded past her husband to be closer to Santana, the better to fuss and fret over every last inch of her. "What happened to your arm, sweetheart?"

"I fell." Santana tucked the cast across her belly, covering as much of it as she could with her other hand. "It was stupid. But it's just a broken wrist."

"Just a broken wrist." Estella clucked her tongue and looped a lock of hair behind her daughter's ear, a habit that had driven Santana crazy as a teenager. She tried to ignore it now and smiled indulgently as Estella continued, "You always were a little ruffian. Wasn't she, Gary? Remember the time she rode her bike into the rosebushes and came strolling in the house, gushing blood, full of holes, and all she said was, 'Mommy, do we have any Band-Aids?'"

Santana watched her father, waiting for him to narrate his half of the story, marveling at what a trouper his seven-year-old baby girl had been as he tweezed thorns out of her skinny arms and legs. When he didn't respond, she tapped her chin. "What's with the George Clooney beard?" she asked. "Are you having a midlife crisis?"

Estella laughed louder than necessary, making up for her suddenly taciturn husband. She turned to pat his cheek and said, "Doesn't he look distinguished? He used to be so scruffy when he grew it out. He stopped trying after you got to be a toddler and told him you didn't like his scratchy kisses."

Something flashed in Gary's eyes to alert his wife that her walk down memory lane was not as enjoyable as she believed. Santana saw it too, but she played along while they pretended it hadn't happened, standing above her with tight-lipped smiles, their alliance with each other clearly stronger than ever. And just like old times, they weren't prepared to hear the truth about their perfect little girl. It was practically written all over their faces.

"We're being rude to Rachel," Santana said, gesturing to the corner where Rachel had positioned herself like the statue of a saint in the recess of a church. "You guys remember her, right?" Winking, she added, "The next most talented performer in glee club, after yours truly."

Gary merely tipped his head in Rachel's direction, not offering the signature doctor's handshake that, for years, had been automatic even outside his practice. But Estella bustled towards Rachel and embraced her as an old friend, then held her at arm's-length. "Now that I have a face to go with the name and the voice, yes, I know who she is. Quite the showstopper, this one."

"Thanks," Rachel said, apprehension melting away as she beamed at the compliment.

"You have no idea," said Santana.

Guiding Rachel by the hand, Estella urged her to take a spot near the bed. "I should be thanking you, darling. You're the reason I have a daughter again," she said, rejoining her husband on the opposite side.

_Well, isn't this nice and awkward_, Santana thought.

Out loud she said, "You never stopped having a daughter."

"You know what I mean."

Santana clamped her mouth shut to keep the sarcasm from escaping. Despite the anger she harbored, she wanted this reunion with her parents to go well. She'd had enough drama in recent days to last her a lifetime. But as she suppressed her own tongue, her father found his.

"Why are we here, Santana María?" he asked, leveling his solemn brown eyes at her. "What did you get yourself into?"

His certainty that she had caused her predicament stung, even if he was correct. Santana considered lying—he probably expected that from her, too—but a sidelong glance at Rachel's face told her it was a dead giveaway. And after what she had put Rachel through, anything less than honesty would be a disservice. Santana trained her gaze on the oxygen tube she wove between her fingers. "I was drinking," she said, setting the tube free and beginning over. "And I used cocaine. I overdosed."

"Oh, Santana, no," Estella gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. The tears were immediate, spilling in fat drops from her wide toffee-colored eyes as if she had been saving them up, nurturing them for just such an occasion.

Gary put an arm around his wife and shook his head. "Good God," he muttered. "I thought you were smarter than that. You're lucky your mother and I aren't visiting you in the morgue."

Estella wept harder and buried her face in his chest.

"Yeah, I know," said Santana.

"How many times did I warn you not to get mixed up in drugs?"

"Lots."

"Is this the first time you've used cocaine?" He sounded hopeful.

"No," Santana said quietly. "I started about... a year and a half ago, I guess. A friend gave me some to try, and I was curious."

Gary shot an accusatory look at Rachel.

"Jesus, Dad, not Rachel. It was someone I work with." Santana hadn't planned to bring up her job, and she hastened to cover her mistake. "Anyway, I've been trying to quit for a few months. I did all right for a while, but I've just had a lot to deal with lately and..." With a lift of her hand, she indicated the hospital room and the bed she sat in.

"You should have called us," Estella said, peering up from the shelter of her husband's embrace. "We would've dropped everything to come here and help with whatever you needed."

"Really, Mom? Because when I left Lima, I was kinda under the impression you didn't want anything to do with me."

Estella pulled a tissue from her pocket, blotted her cheeks and blew her nose. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, only lightly scolding. "You're our little girl, and we love you."

"You called me an abomination."

"I said what you were doing was an abomination—"

"Let's not get into that here," Gary interrupted, stepping in as mediator, a role that had been assigned to him from the moment Santana learned to speak. "The important thing is that you're okay now. I'll talk with the doctor about your condition. We can make arrangements from there. Has he said when you'll be released?"

"Not for sure." Santana narrowed her eyes the slightest bit. "What do you mean, 'arrangements'?"

"You're coming home with us. We'll help you get straightened out."

There was confidence in her father's voice. Santana wanted to believe it came from his concern for her well-being; that it proved how seriously he took her recovery; that the relief she had survived was so great it outweighed his disapproval of her actions. But his businesslike manner ruined the illusion. He was a physician, and she finally had something wrong with her that he could fix.

"Straight being the operative word," she mumbled.

"What?"

"Never mind." Santana sighed and cast a sorrowful gaze at both her parents. "I can't go back to Lima with you. I'm sorry if you came all this way thinking I would. But I won't."

"Why not?" Estella demanded, balling the tissue as she brought her fist down against the mattress emphatically.

"Because there's nothing for me in that shi—... crummy little town." Seeing her mother about to object, Santana hurried on, "I don't mean you guys. It's just... I can't be myself there."

"Yourself." Gary scratched at his beard in agitation. He rubbed his fingers over the whiskers, first one side and then the other, smoothing them down. "You mean a lesbian."

Santana returned his challenging look. "Yes, Dad. A lesbian."

"I hoped you'd be over that by now."

More baffled than hurt or angry, Santana stared at him open-mouthed, blinking. It amazed her that someone as intelligent as her father could be so thickheaded. Even after all the arguing with him, the crying and screaming matches with her mother, and the years of estrangement because of their refusal to accept her sexuality, he still believed it was a phase. Like the time she'd wanted to collect every Bratz doll in existence, or when she forced everyone to call her Regina for an entire week. "Oh, my God," she groaned, dropping her face into her palm.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Rachel press against the bed rail, physically trying to assert herself into the conversation. She had that officious air about her—the one she used to get during glee rehearsals, when Will Schuester's teaching methods weren't living up to her standards.

This was going to be good.

"Excuse me, Dr. Lopez," Rachel said, polite yet crisp. "You might not be aware of this, but I was raised by two gay fathers. I speak from experience when I say that Lima is an intolerant and homophobic town. When my dads came out, their families had similar reactions to yours. Some of our relatives still think they'll 'get over it,' even though they've been together more than twenty years. But it's not something they can change about themselves, nor do they want to. It would be like asking you to get over being Latino." She folded her hands contritely, as if worried she had gone too far with the final remark. But then she added, "And begging your pardon, sir, I think someone in the medical field could stand to be a bit more progressive minded."

Gary listened to the speech with his arms crossed, his face growing redder by the minute, features hardening. When Rachel was through, he marched to the other side of the bed and took her by the arm, leading her away.

"What are you doing? Let her go," Santana said, sitting bolt upright and shrugging off her mother's hand as it tried to ease her back against the bed.

"I want her out of here," Gary said, headed for the door, Rachel still in tow and looking too stunned to resist. "She's not family. She doesn't belong in this room."

"Like hell she doesn't. I asked her to stay," Santana snapped, flinging aside all efforts to keep her temper under control. "She has as much right to be here as either of you. I'd be dead if not for her. Let her go."

Though he grudgingly obeyed, Gary continued to glare at Rachel as she stepped back several paces and bumped into the foot of the bed. "I suppose there's something going on between you and my daughter," he said with contempt, planting his hands on his hips. "But that doesn't give you any say in this."

"What?" said Santana, her voice rising sharply.

"I saw the way you two were looking at each other when we walked in," Gary said, pointing at Santana and Rachel, then to his wife and himself. He spoke in a harsh whisper as a nurse wandered by the open door and snuck a curious peep inside. "I knew right then."

"You don't know shit."

"Santana María," Estella warned, her accent thickening, a sure sign that a deluge of Spanish was not far behind.

"And so what if Rachel and I were together? Would that make a difference to you?" Santana leaned forward, addressing only her father. She pressed the flat of her palm over her heart. "You love me, but it's conditional, is that it?"

"Your father loves you no matter what," Estella said. "We both do."

Santana didn't take her eyes off her father. Silently, she pleaded with him to answer, heart thundering so hard inside her chest she trembled with the fury of it. She ached to be gathered into his arms again and told that nothing on earth—or in heaven—could change the way he felt about her. His _mija_.

But he kept her waiting a moment too long, and it cost him.

"I've been working as a stripper for the past three years," she said, turning to her mother as she delivered the news with a vague smirk. She tilted her head inquiringly. "Guess that won't matter either, since you're such devoted parents?"

"I don't believe you," Estella said, but recoiled and clutched at the tiny crucifix around her neck. "You're lying just to hurt me now. That is the sickest, most spiteful..." Distressed, she looked to her husband as he paced back and forth like a caged tiger, running fingers through his thick, wavy hair over and over. "Gary, say something."

He ignored Estella as he processed the information, his stride carrying him from one end of the room to the other. When he finally diverged from his path and returned to the empty side of the bed, apart from his wife, he gazed down at Santana and asked in a confidential tone, "Is it true?"

"Every word."

"_Dios mío_," said Estella.

"Why?" Gary spread his hands in desperation, as if understanding were a tangible thing he might be able to clutch onto. "Why did you turn out like this? Where did we go wrong with you?"

Santana shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Mom drank too much sacramental wine while she was pregnant. Or maybe I'm just—" Before she could call herself a bad seed, her father grabbed her by the shoulders and gave a quick, savage shake. She made a soft hiccupping sound, too startled—and weak—to prevent her head from snapping backwards. She looked up at him in surprise from beneath long, tousled bangs.

"Dr. Lopez, please," Rachel said urgently. "She went through a lot yesterday. I wouldn't—"

"It's okay, Rachel." Santana tossed the hair out of her eyes, the pounding in her skull intensified by the movement. She didn't let it show. "I'm used to guys putting their hands all over me."

Gary's face twisted in revulsion and he jerked away. His arms dropped loosely at his sides. Even on Santana's worst days as a teenager, he had never manhandled her. He studied his hands like he was seeing them for the first time, then shoved the culprits into his pockets. "I don't know what's happened to you," he said dejectedly. "You are destroying your life. You could be in college right now, making something of yourself. Instead, you're a..." His voice broke and he turned his back on Santana, facing the wall as he finished: "I am so ashamed of what you've become."

It would have hurt less had he shaken her again. The words were just a different kind of jolt to the system, and not as easy to recover from. Santana knew she had already caused enough damage, but she'd been wounded, too, and retaliation was always her most favored defense. "You mean a trashy, coked-up little slut?" she offered, the description leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. "Well, you don't even know the half of it. I've been slumming it as a call girl, too. I'm still pretty new at it, but the pay's good. Gotta support my habit, y'know?"

Shoulders sagging, Gary lowered his head and put his palm out, bracing himself against the wall. Fleetingly, Santana wondered if she were responsible for the white in his beard and the silver strands threaded throughout his otherwise black hair. Averting her eyes when a shudder ran down his back, she swept them in her mother's direction—poor Rachel looked shell-shocked—and found her frozen with a horrified expression on her lovely face. Santana nodded as Estella's head shook in denial.

Estella closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross, muttering in supplication to one saint or another. Santana preferred her mother loud and dramatic rather than pious. "Look at this way, Mom," she said. "Maybe if I suck enough cock, I'll learn to like it. Then at least one of your prayers will be answered."

With startling accuracy, Estella's hand snaked out and connected with Santana's cheek. There wasn't much force behind it, but the noise of it was impressive and drew a gasp from Rachel. It galled Santana not that she had been slapped like a bratty four-year-old but that she'd flinched. She and her mother stared coldly at each other, Estella exhibiting none of the remorse her husband had for his outburst.

"I came here thinking you might have changed, but you're even more hateful than you used to be," Estella said. "It's impossible to talk to you like this. And I won't stand by while you ridicule me or your father. You've already put us through hell once before, and I won't let you drag us down again." She moved towards the end of the bed, motioning for her husband. "Come on, Gary, let's go. We're obviously not welcome."

Rachel stepped into Estella's path, at the risk of getting bulldozed by the woman who towered no less than five inches above her. "You can't be serious," she said, all deference for her elders gone. "How can you just walk out? She's hurting every bit as much as you are."

"That's her own doing," Estella said, chin lifted in defiance. "She's beyond my help. It's in God's hands now."

"If you're so religious, where's your compassion? I'm Jewish and even I know the story of Jesus pardoning the prostitute."

"That woman was repentant. She—" Estella pointed to Santana without looking at her. "—is anything but."

"Can't you see how much she needs you?"

"I see nothing of the sort. And this conversation is over." To her husband, Estella said, "I'll be waiting downstairs."

A numb feeling Santana tried to pass off as indifference settled upon her as she watched her mother leave the room without glancing back. The click of high heels faded into the distance, and when they were out of earshot, Santana gazed dully at her father. After a while he seemed to sense it. He sniffed, his posture becoming erect. From the inside pocket of his blazer he retrieved a handkerchief and dried his eyes. Then he turned and started for the door at a brisk pace.

"Daddy?"

He stopped and touched the doorframe, opening his mouth to reply, closing it. His weight shifted as if he would alter his course, walk to her side, wrap her up in a safe and comforting hug. But he put one foot in front of the other and kept on going, his departure lacking the sound effect of his wife's. He simply vanished. Less effective, but much more final.

"Well," said Santana, once it was clear neither parent would have a last minute change of heart, "my life is officially a telenovela."

The wry smile she gave Rachel crumbled the moment their eyes met. At first the tears came silently, but soon she was racked by violent sobs that left her gasping for air. She made a cradle of her arms, hiding her face in it and rolling onto her side, away from the empty doorway. Drawing her knees towards her chest, she curled up as small as she could.

"You should've let me die," she said when Rachel's palm rested against her back, stroking in circles. Her voice halted and quaked uncontrollably, distorting the words. She steadied it and repeated with hardly a stammer: "You should have just let me die."

The bedrail clinked and the mattress rustled as a slight, snug body fitted itself behind her. Arms looped around her. Low, soothing noises that were like a melody floated into her ear.

"Shh," Rachel hushed. "Don't say that. I know it's awful right now, but it'll get better. Everything's going to be all right."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'll do my best to make sure that it is." Rachel dropped a kiss into Santana's hair. "And you know how I am when I set my mind to something."

Santana didn't remember the last time she had chanced letting her guard down with anyone, but she did it in that moment, before fear or pride could dissuade her. Turning, she melted into Rachel's embrace, allowing herself to be comforted and murmured to as she cried until there were no tears left. Head tucked under Rachel's chin, she sank into a deep exhaustion. Her arms and legs felt like they were filled with lead; her eyelids were too heavy to hold apart. She lost track of how much time had passed, but she'd drifted into the pleasant haze between dreams and reality when she heard a birdlike trill, followed by Rachel softly inquiring, "Hello?" Even half asleep she detected rising excitement in the stream of affirmative answers Rachel gave to the caller, concluding with: "Absolutely. I'll see you then. Goodbye."

"You leaving?" Santana asked.

"No, I'm not going anywhere." Rachel ran her fingers through Santana's hair, whispering, "But I did just get a callback for Sybil. They want to see me again in a few days."

"Mm. Knew you'd get it," Santana said, uncertain whether she had formed actual words or garbled together sounds that mimicked speech.

"Santana?"

"Hm?"

"When you're released I want you to come home with me, okay?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Good. Get some sleep." Rachel kissed the top of Santana's head. "I'll be here when you wake up."


	8. Honey Hi

**A/N: **Thanks for the chapter 6 reviews. And for those commenting on the quickness of the updates... it's only because I already had the story finished when I started posting it. I worked on it most of the summer. I wish I could write this much in a weeks time, but no. Took me much, much longer than that, lol. Also, a little heads-up: the chapter after this will be the last.

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><p><em>Honey, honey, honey hi<em>

- Fleetwood Mac, "Honey Hi" (Christine McVie)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 7: Honey Hi<strong>

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

For some reason the rotund man to Santana's left felt the need to intone the prayer in a booming voice—the definition of "serenity" apparently beyond his comprehension—saving her the trouble of raising hers. She jiggled her leg and mumbled under her breath. When the mantra ended she immediately reclaimed her hands from the shouter and a girl whose dreadlocks stuck out in every direction like furry tentacles. She tucked her fingertips just inside the pockets of her jeans, shoulders bunching as she offered a faint smile to the others in the circle who disbanded after the chairperson's closing statement.

She was unaccustomed to shyness, but two weeks of NA meetings hadn't gotten her past the newcomer jitters yet. It didn't help that she'd avoided socializing or sharing her struggles with the group so far, and many of them still eyed her with curiosity whenever they happened by. One guy in particular had been glancing over his shoulder at her since she walked through the community center doors an hour earlier. She didn't remember him from previous sessions, and his twitchy grin gave her the creeps. If it weren't for promising Rosalind to hang around for a minute after the meeting, she would have bolted with the rest of the newly recovering addicts who didn't go for the touchy-feely ways of longtime attendees.

Rosalind wasn't so bad though. As far as sponsors went, Santana felt like she had lucked out. The weeks of detox and withdrawal were hell on her body, and once her stint with out-patient rehab at the hospital was through, she had wanted nothing more than to forget about drug treatment options and support systems for a while. But at the insistence of a counselor, she agreed to give Narcotics Anonymous a try.

That first night, she showed up in a foul mood, arms crossed as she slouched in one of the metal folding chairs and envisioned punching every single whining junkie in the face. Then an impossibly tall woman with a mane of dazzling white-blond hair began to talk about her cocaine abuse. She looked like a supermodel, and as she played absently with the flaxen waves that stretched almost to her elbows, Santana found herself drawn into the story. It sounded so familiar—the initiation by a co-worker, the dabbling that became full-blown dependency, the brush with death that signified rock bottom. Though Santana toyed with the idea of approaching the woman afterwards, she never would have done so on her own. She didn't need to, as it turned out: the woman came to her, introduced herself as Rosalind and promptly claimed Santana as her "sponsee" when she discovered no one else had.

They clicked right away. Rosalind had indeed been a model before the drugs and an eating disorder took their toll. She'd gotten started on cocaine for the main purpose of staying thin. She knew what it was like to be valued for her body above all else. When she spoke about overcoming her problems, it didn't induce annoyance or boredom; on the contrary, Santana was interested and even a little hopeful. If Rosalind—whose five-year addiction ruined a marriage and a career which included spreads in _Vogue _and various high-profile magazines—could find happiness as a sober single mom of two little boys, maybe Santana's situation wasn't so bleak after all. It didn't hurt that the blonde was drop-dead gorgeous and not afraid to flirt, either. Santana had no plans to pursue her, but it made their conversations fun and gave an incentive for returning each night. Opening up to someone like Rosalind might not be such a bad thing. Eventually.

The downside to having a beautiful, friendly sponsor was her popularity. Rosalind waved and signaled one more minute at Santana from across the room, where she had been cornered by a senior citizen who couldn't take a hint. Feeling awkward just standing around by the empty chairs, Santana headed for the refreshment table she had skipped over on arrival. Two chocolate chip cookies were the sole survivors of a massacre that had taken place in the sweets platter. She turned her nose up at the unappetizing rubble and opted for coffee. As she chose a Styrofoam cup and positioned it beneath the steaming pot, she noticed that the guy who had been staring at her moments ago was still at it, only now he waited by the exit. His body language made it obvious he wanted to speak with her.

Answering with some body language of her own, she turned her back to him as she poured Sweet'N Low into her cup, mixed it with the liquid, and ran the stir stick between her lips before tossing it in the trash. She listened for footsteps, willing them to go in the opposite direction. Without testing the temperature, she sipped at her drink in an attempt to look busy.

"Holy mother of God!" she spluttered.

It was hot.

She grabbed a napkin and pressed it to her mouth for a moment, then fanned her scalded tongue with it. Carefully, she peeked towards the exit, relieved to see that no one had witnessed her little scene—the creeper had left.

"Hey there, kiddo," said an amused female voice. "Never took you for the religious type."

Okay, maybe one person saw it. Santana glanced up sheepishly at Rosalind and pointed to the contents of her cup, which she didn't dare sample again quite yet. "Well, I just got a preview of what the coffee they serve in hell must taste like," she said. "And I may have to get my ass back in church."

Rosalind laughed. "Sorry, I should've warned you that they keep it roughly the temperature of molten lava. Think it's our punishment for being substance abusers?"

Santana smiled and shrugged off the question. It was still difficult for her to talk freely about the drug use. She knew sooner or later she would have to, but not today.

As if Rosalind were a mind reader, she rummaged through the messenger bag at her hip, its long strap crossing from the other shoulder, and said, "So, I've noticed that you're a bit... recalcitrant, shall we say, when it comes to sharing in front of the group. Which is perfectly understandable. But." Suddenly she flourished a black and white composition notebook and an ink pen. "It's why I got you these."

"You want me to write an essay?" Santana asked, regarding the gift with skepticism. "Is it too late to get another sponsor?"

Rosalind brought the notebook lightly across Santana's thigh. "It's a journal, smarty-pants. For your deepest, darkest secrets. And all the wicked little remarks I can see in those killer eyes of yours this very minute. I'm sure you'll fill it in no time." She extended the paper and pen once more, taking on a serious tone as she added, "I started keeping one when I first joined NA, and it got me through the rough patches. Whenever I had a craving or felt like I was about to lose control, I'd sit myself down and write about it. By the time I finished, I didn't want to use so bad. Or at least managed not to give in."

Santana accepted the offering, tucking the journal under her arm and slipping the pen into the front pocket of her Abercrombie sweatshirt. "Thanks," she said, catching herself about to duck her head shyly. She blew at the coffee instead, sipping with caution. It was still unfit to drink, but she let it course down her throat anyway. "I'll give it a try."

"Be as candid as you like," Rosalind said, patting her on the arm. "You don't have to let anybody read it. That is, unless you want to." She smiled and batted her eyelashes excessively.

"Subtle."

"You're a tough little nut. But I'll crack you yet."

"Worst pun ever."

"Just for that," Rosalind said, swiping the chocolate chip cookies from the table, "you don't get any stale, store-bought goodies. I'll take these home to my boys. They appreciate my humor." She folded a napkin around the treats and stuffed them into her bag. Then she clasped Santana's shoulders, accompanying each kiss at the air near her cheeks with a smooching noise. "Later, doll. Be good."

"What else would I be?"

Rosalind breezed away, laughing.

When Santana emerged from the community center, she paused outside the double doors and dug into her pocket for a cigarette. There were only so many vices she could give up at a time, and smoking was not among them. Hungrily, she placed the filter to her lips, retrieved her lighter like an asthmatic going for an inhaler, and gave it a flick. She cursed after several attempts failed to ignite a flame. Physical therapy was improving the dexterity in her wrist and fingers since the cast had come off, but she still had trouble with some of the simplest tasks. Like lighting a damn cigarette.

As she looked around for a place to set her coffee and the journal, a hand appeared before her, silver Zippo lighter—its side decorated with the silhouette of a busty woman—at the ready. "Here," said the man holding it. Santana leaned forward until the flame licked the tip of her cigarette. Pulling smoke deep into her lungs, she let it out smoothly from the corner of her mouth, tension going with it, and glanced up to thank the good Samaritan. Instantly she regretted that decision.

The guy who had ogled her during the meeting smiled his twitchy smile and said, "Hey." He was even less appealing up close, with his red-rimmed and sunken eyes, pouty lips that he moistened habitually, and long, unkempt hair. His clothes looked like they had been plucked from the hamper unwashed, and he reeked of pot. Then he asked, "You're Karma, ain't you?"

Santana pinched a fleck of tobacco off her tongue and shook her head. "No," she said, trying to step around him. He blocked her path.

"Sure you are. I've seen you at Eden's Gate before. You're one of the dancers."

"_No hablo inglés_."

He studied her for a moment, his expression crestfallen. But a second later he brightened, snapped his fingers and pointed at the building behind them. "If you don't speak English, why'd you just sit through a hour of it in there?"

_Shit._ She didn't think he'd have enough brain cells to make that connection. "Look, you've got me confused with somebody else. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Aw, come on. Don't be bashful," he said, aiming for boyish charm, but falling short. "I know it's you. I'm a big fan. I'd recognize your face anywhere." His eyes roved up and down the length of her body. He winked as if they were sharing a private joke.

"What the hell do you want?" she asked, sighing.

"How's come I ain't seen you at the club lately?"

Santana had no desire to share personal information with him, but if it meant she could get away faster she was willing to make a tiny exception. "Because I quit," she said, punctuating the sentence by blowing smoke into his face.

It was mostly true. He didn't need to know that she had little choice in the matter. Even if she had succeeded at sweet talking her boss out of firing her for days of unexplained absence, the cast prevented her from returning to work or finding it elsewhere—at least as a stripper. When she went to the club and collected her possessions after her release from the hospital, she expected to be filled with a sense of loss. Eden's Gate had been her home for years, figuratively and, at times, literally. The people employed there were the closest thing she'd had to a group of friends since high school. But as she hugged Tulsa and Eddie goodbye and walked out the front door, she felt a burden being lifted from her shoulders, in spite of the heavy duffel bag. It was like the freedom of dumping a lover who had become toxic. Of course, one of the hardest parts of breaking up was deciding what to do with mementos from the relationship. It had taken Santana awhile to delete Tulsa's number from her phone.

"Seriously? That sucks. You're the hottest chick in that place." He rounded his thumb and index finger into the O.K. symbol. "Like, primo."

Out of sheer disinterest, she took a swig of coffee and rolled her eyes behind the rim of the cup. The drink still had some bite to it, but she swallowed without wincing. "Are you aware how lame it is to attend NA while you're baked?" she said. "There's people in there actually trying to stay clean."

"Yeah, a bunch of losers." He giggled, catching the scraggly strands of hair on either side of his face and curling them behind his ears. When she glared at him, he sobered slightly. "I mean, that shit's not for me. I only came 'cause a buddy of mine asked me to. He wanted me to hear his testimonial or whatever. I told him I'd think about joining, but that was just to get him off my back. No way I'm drinking that Kool-Aid."

"What a shame," Santana muttered, tapping the end of her cigarette and watching ashes sprinkle the sidewalk. Inwardly, she did a cartwheel in celebration of not having to switch groups to avoid any more encounters with this jerk.

"So, are you dancing anywhere else?"

"No."

"How's come?"

"Because I got sick of douche bags bothering me all the time."

He snickered, the lid of his lighter producing a soft chink as he flipped it open and shut. He pointed it at her. "You got a mouth on you, huh? I like that." The lighter clicked again as he leaned in and confided, "I'd like it even better on me, though."

Santana's lip curled in disgust. "Go to hell," she said, flicking her cigarette down after one last drag. She crushed it beneath the toe of her ballet flat and turned towards the curb, preparing to hail a taxi. Her destination was within walking distance, but the faster she got away from here, the better.

"Okay, so it was a bad line, but don't go. I'll be serious," he said, stepping sideways to cut her off. He dropped his stoner act, though he continued to fiddle nervously with the Zippo. "How's a guy get a little one-on-one with you?"

"He doesn't," she said through gritted teeth. "I don't do that."

"I heard different."

"You heard wrong." Santana meant to sound matter-of-fact, but it came out too quietly, too much like a question. It hadn't occurred to her that word might have spread about her dealings outside of the club. A knot formed in her stomach at the thought of her secret being passed around, the most shameful part of her life reduced to gossip for perverts like the one in front of her to entertain themselves with. She feigned interest in the black polish on her fingernails, lips pressed together tightly as she battled back emotion.

"I could make it worth your while..."

She gave a humorless laugh. "I doubt that," she said, looking him over with a critical eye.

"You think I can't afford you?"

"Honey, I know you can't."

"Well, I might not be as loaded as some of your sugar daddies, but there's other methods of payment. Name your price." He squinted, as if gauging a particular fact about her, like age or weight, by clues from outward appearance. "Smack?"

"Fuck you."

"E? Hugs and kisses? Purple haze?"

Santana snorted derisively and rubbed at her nose in irritation. She realized her mistake a moment too late.

"Ah," he said, a knowing lilt in his voice. "Shoulda guessed you'd be a Uptown girl." He patted the pocket of his flannel shirt, then unbuttoned the flap, inserted two fingers and slid a small baggie of white powder just into view. Once she got a glimpse, he tauntingly concealed it. "Best shit in the city. Make you feel like Christmas morning." He nudged her shoulder with his. "How 'bout it, Snow White? Blow for blow?"

When he brushed against her, his scent bore down on Santana: marijuana and days-old perspiration; an oppressive fragrance like the AXE products boys in high school doused themselves in, believing it was sexy; and underneath it all, a hint of something she couldn't put a name to, but recognized as distinctly male. It churned her stomach, and yet she knew it was about to drag her under like an anesthetic. She could already picture herself leading this guy to some back alley, tugging his rumpled jeans to his ankles and sucking him off while that smell and his moans drowned out conscious thought. It would be easier than the other two tricks because he was even more desperate than she was—or at least it seemed that way until she noticed her hands shaking so badly she almost spilled coffee down her sleeve.

Hunger gnawed at her as though she hadn't eaten in days. She became faint with it, and she combed her fingers through the part in her hair to get rid of wispy strands that suddenly felt plastered to her forehead. As she did so, she caught a whiff of another fragrance, this one gentler and sweeter. It reminded Santana of the lilacs that bloomed each spring outside her bedroom window in Ohio. Rachel never mentioned it, but she had started leaving the perfume bottle in obvious places, so she must have known Santana stole spritzes from it every chance she got. Prior to leaving for the NA meeting, she'd done exactly that—applied a light squirt to both wrists the second Rachel wasn't looking. Now, breathing it in, she thought of Rachel back at their apartment, expecting her home any minute, probably eager to hear how things went.

She thought of Rachel staying up late to comfort her after the withdrawal nightmares, even though she had work in the morning...

Waiting on the HIV test results and holding her hand the entire time...

That ferocious hug when it was negative...

"Yoo-hoo, Karma?" He clicked his lighter.

"Just get the fuck out of my way," said Santana, pushing past him while she still had the strength. "I've got somewhere to be."

Traipsing alongside her, he asked, "He got a better offer for you than me?"

"Yes, actually, she does."

"She? Holy shit, so you really are a dyke?" He snatched the journal from beneath her arm and held it aloft like a schoolboy tormenting his crush. "'Cause I heard—"

Santana whipped around, grabbed the journal with one hand and threw coffee in his face with the other. He yelped in surprise, and then, judging by the shrillness of it, pain. None of the Slushies she'd given or received at William McKinley had ever garnered such a reaction. Though it stunned her at first, she felt no remorse—he should have left her alone.

She backed up in case he started swinging, but his hands went straight to his eyes, dark brown rivulets winding down his cheeks when he closed the lids. Liquid dripped from the ends of his long hair and soaked into the collar of the tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt he wore under the flannel.

"Aw, fuck, that shit's hot! What the fuck!"

"Stay away from me," she said, emphasizing each word in a cold, hard tone. "If I ever see you again, I'm calling the cops."

"I oughta call the cops on your ass, you psychotic bitch," he said, wiping his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, flinging droplets of coffee to the ground.

Santana strode to the crosswalk a safe distance from him, relieved when he didn't follow. "Go ahead, I'll be sure to tell them about your stash," she said over her shoulder.

He kicked the Styrofoam cup that had landed at his feet and spat out, "Cunt."

"Prick," Santana said before slipping into the cab that appeared, as if by divine intervention, the second she thrust her hand into the street. She slammed the door behind her, gave the driver her address, then sank against the backseat, her heart pounding, as they disappeared around a corner.

By the time they parked outside of the apartment building, she was still trembling. She paid the fare, almost dropping a handful of coins all over the floor, and trudged up the front steps with the journal clutched to her chest like a shield. When she arrived at door 5B, she couldn't quite recall how she got there. Pausing with her hand on the knob, she tried to remember if she'd taken the elevator or the stairs. She didn't know. But of one thing she was certain—she needed to regroup before she went in.

Quietly, she turned and crept towards the stairwell on impulse, letting it summon her higher and higher until she surfaced on the roof of the building. A few dying rays of sunlight cast it in a warm, golden glow. She hadn't been here alone since the overdose. Fear didn't kept her from coming up—she wasn't the one with bad memories of the place—but more of an adherence to tradition. The rooftop had become her special spot with Rachel. It had brought them closer together and nearly torn them apart. Now, it was where they wiled away the hours together: talking, laughing, occasionally crying, because no topic was off-limits when they were there. Maybe it wasn't the most attractive refuge they could have chosen, with its uneven surface and nonexistent scenery, but it was theirs. She didn't think Rachel would mind too much if she borrowed it for herself just this once, though. Rachel was really good about sharing.

Santana took out a cigarette and managed to light it on the first try. The familiar action helped steady her hands, and she removed the pen from inside her sweatshirt, thumbing off the cap and sticking it on the opposite end. She sat down cross-legged with her back to the nearest ledge, opened the journal in her lap and began to write:

_So, Rosalind gave me this notebook and told me to use it as a journal. I haven't kept one of these since high school, and even then I usually gave up on it after the first couple pages. But Ros knows what works, I guess, so I'll take her advice. And since I feel like shit right now, it seems like a good time to start._

_Some skuzzy little fuckwad that looked like a long lost Culkin brother just tried to trade me coke for a blowjob. In broad daylight, outside an NA meeting. How pathetic is that? What's more pathetic is that I almost agreed to it. Even now I'm not sure I'd say no if I had it to do all over again. I'd want to, but if something didn't stop me..._

_I don't know. I'm trying not to think about what could've happened and focusing on what did. I told him no. I walked away. I went all Lima Heights and threw coffee in his face. (Which was awesome, BTW.) That has to count for something, right? I can't take full credit, though. Rachel saved my ass yet again, and she wasn't even there this time. But I got to thinking about all the other times she's come through for me lately, and I couldn't stand the thought of letting her down. I mean, WTF? I've somehow become accountable to Rachel Berry, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. In this journal. Which I will burn and deny ever existed if anyone reads it._

_Really, tho, I don't know why she puts up with me. I was a bitch to her from K-12 and sometimes I'm still a bitch to her. I'm lucky she didn't drag my ass up to this roof and toss it off when I was going through detox. I wouldn't have blamed her if she had, because I was even getting on my own nerves. But she stuck it out and didn't murder me in my sleep. And for whatever reason, she continues to put up with my bullshit. Either she's the most tolerant human being on the planet, or she really is insane. Maybe a little of both. All I know is, she's the only person who's never given up on me. Everyone seems to eventually, my parents included. _

_Okay, so maybe that last part isn't entirely true. I'm sure it's just a matter of time until they hate me again, but at least for now we're being civil to each other. Me and Dad, anyway. Mom pretends she's not at home when he calls sometimes. I'm still surprised he even started calling me at all. I didn't think I'd ever hear from either of them again after what went down at the hospital. Imagine my surprise when I found out they've arranged to pay my medical bills. I keep telling Dad I'll take care of it myself, but he insists. I know it's only out of guilt, or some religious conviction crap, but if it makes him feel like a better father I suppose I can play along. Maybe someday we'll actually be able to spend five minutes in the same room together without ripping each other to shreds. Mom's a different story. She'll probably never accept me for who I am..._

_Anyway. Back to Rachel. My little anti-drug. It's sort of hilarious how protective she's gotten. It's like having my own pint-sized bodyguard in a headband and knee socks. That day we picked my stuff up from the Gate, I thought she was going to take Eddie out when he tried to talk me into coming back to work after my wrist healed. And if looks could kill, Tulsa would be dead right now with all the glaring Rachel did. Tuls knew better than to offer me anything. I can't keep relying on Rachel to help me stay clean, I know that. According to the counselors and NA, this has to be something I do for myself. And it is. But having her on my side makes it a hell of a lot easier._

_I still haven't figured out where things are going with us. We flirt like hell and we've gotten our cuddle on quite a bit lately. I think she's ready for more, but we're both kind of shy after what happened the first time. So I'm being good and patient. Make no mistake, tho— I'll jump the girl's bones the second she gives me permission. _

_God, I sound like I'm obsessed. I better stop here or I might end up doodling hearts and writing her name in bubble letters in the margins. Embarrassing much? Plus, I just ran out of sunlight._

Santana riffled the notebook paper, surprised to find she had filled three and a half pages. Her hurried scrawl resembled that of a drunkard and the entry was neither eloquent nor cohesive, but when she closed the journal's mottled cover, she felt satisfied. Her heart beat at a normal rate and the cigarette didn't quiver between her fingers. Though the craving remained, it had diminished from a roar to a whimper. Now her foremost desire was to be downstairs, with Rachel to keep her company.

She stood, brushed off the seat of her jeans, and stubbed out the cigarette against an empty planter that had become her ashtray. Descending the stairs, she smiled to herself, and the smile widened when she opened their apartment door to see Rachel perched on the lid of her clothing trunk, absorbed in the script for her leading role as psychologically disturbed Sybil Dorsett. It was a common sight these days, and one Santana had grown fond of.

"How was the meeting?" Rachel asked.

"Fine." Bringing up the incident outside of the community center would only make Rachel fret, and she was already anxious enough with opening night of the play two weeks hence. Santana gestured to the script as Rachel set it aside. "Nuts yet?"

"Almost. Peggy's giving me trouble." Rachel sighed like a mother at her wit's end with a naughty child. "I don't want her to come across as a brat."

"Which personality is she again?"

"The angry one. She's nine and likes to break glass."

"Sweetie, if you need tips on anger, you're looking at an expert." Santana kicked both shoes off next to her duffel bag and stuffed the journal inside it. "But before I make you my evil protégé... what smells so damn amazing?"

"I wondered when you'd notice." Beaming, Rachel rapped her knuckles against the slim cardboard box at her side, the long, brown paper sack on top of it crinkling in protest.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's pizza and breadsticks from Roma's, then yes. Delivery guy dropped it off not five minutes before you came in."

Belly rumbling with a satiable hunger this time, Santana practically pounced on the food and the girl who had ordered it. She gathered the takeout containers into her lap, flopping down beside Rachel on the trunk. "I wants you in me now," she said to the pizza as she unfolded its lid and inhaled greedily, "you fat, delicious bastard."

Rachel giggled and gave Santana a dainty tap on the shoulder. "I'm sorry to interrupt you two, but..." She directed attention to the patchwork quilt on the bed, where a pink laptop computer stood open, the back of its display covered in the same flower, gold star and "Hot Stuff" stickers that had been there since freshman year. "I thought we could make a night of it and watch a movie. It turns out they have _Sybil_ on Netflix, and since you've never seen it..." She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "Which, don't even get me started on that gross mismanagement of—"

In recent weeks Santana had heard the rant about her lack of exposure to Sally Field's most groundbreaking roles so often she had it memorized. She leaned over, slid a hand behind Rachel's head and silenced her with a slow, tender kiss. Pleasure buzzed along Santana's skin as Rachel reciprocated, mouth soft and yielding, tongue barely skimming over hers. She kept the contact light and flirtatious, and when she separated from it she pecked the full bottom lip that jutted out before her in a tiny pout. "Pizza, breadsticks and insanity," she murmured. "This is how you seduce me?"

"Is it working?" Rachel asked.

"Get your crazy ass in that bed, and we'll see."

xxx

_We're in the booth by the jukebox._

Santana groaned as she read the text message on her phone, then checked the time directly above it. Of course they would show up fifteen minutes before her shift ended, when she hadn't enough warning to change into her street clothes first. She deposited a handful of dirty forks into the massive stainless steel sink, making a face at the sight of food-encrusted dishes piled haphazardly on the counter beside it. At least she was just a waitress and not a dishwasher. Then again, the dishwashers weren't required to wear ridiculous 1950's garb that, in her mind, equated with a clown suit.

When Rachel talked her into applying at Kenickie's Diner—where they were about to lose another server if _Sybil the Musical _became a hit—the costumes had almost been a deal breaker. She complied only out of need for a paycheck and because no other restaurant manager seemed keen on hiring a girl in a cast to wait tables. Thanks to the sob story Rachel gave her boss, Santana secured an interview and a promise that talent as a performer would be relied on more than ability to carry a tray, at least until her wrist healed. Now that the cast had come off, she was schlepping it with the rest of her co-workers. The one consolation was that she'd been allowed to select her attire, instead of having hideous poodle appliqués or cat's-eye glasses forced upon her as she feared.

Naturally, she chose the femme fatale look. Her snug red pencil skirt fell to mid-calf, a demure slit up the back giving her ease of movement and a little added sex appeal. Just below the hemline a length of dark stocking came into view, back seams plunging into the lowest pair of heels she had ever worked in. The black and red blouse, with its V-neck and capped sleeves, stayed buttoned to an appropriate height. It was a family restaurant after all. Sometimes she still caught fathers or husbands checking her out, but their wives usually fixed that with a sharp word or a slap across the arm. To Santana's surprise, she did not miss turning every head when she walked into the room.

Although she complained about the job on a regular basis, it was mostly to preserve her tough reputation. The restaurant was corny, but she felt safe there. And she got to sing. It rekindled a joy within her that she had lost soon after the final performance of McKinley High's 2012 glee club. How appropriate that the diner would serve as backdrop to another mini high school reunion this very moment.

Glad she had taken time for pin curls the night before, she smoothed a hand over her wavy hair and straightened her polka dot neckerchief. Then she cocked her hip and sashayed out of the kitchen with as much attitude as possible, given the setting. She immediately spotted Rachel across the dining room, absorbed in conversation with a young man seated opposite her. His back was to Santana, but she recognized the expertly coiffed hair even before he turned and revealed the Kewpie doll face beneath it. Grinning, she returned Rachel and Kurt Hummel's enthusiastic waves with a quick wiggle of her fingers. After pausing to drop off a Diet Coke at one of the tables, she sauntered over to them. She'd wondered if Kurt would be happy to see her—they hadn't exactly been bosom buddies in the past—but his reaction to her approach dispelled any doubt.

"Oh, my Cha Cha DiGregorio," he said in an oath-like manner, giving her the once-over and a silent clap of approval. "Look at you. It's like you stepped right out of film noir. I wish I'd worn my trench coat and fedora." He scooted to the edge of the booth and opened his arms. "Come here, you smoldering temptress."

"Me?" Santana asked, patting his back as she hugged him. When they parted she brushed invisible lint from the shoulders of his spiffy vest. "Look at you. What, did you just leave a _GQ _fashion shoot?"

"This old thing?" He plucked at the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, drawing the eye to his silver cufflinks that were shaped like the masks of comedy and tragedy.

"And he's modest as ever," Santana said, nudging Rachel further down the cushioned bench as she slid in next to her. She caught herself about to deliver a kiss on the cheek as greeting, but settled for taking Rachel's hand under the table instead. They hadn't discussed to whom they would reveal their budding relationship, and though Kurt knew they shared an apartment, Santana didn't think Rachel had told him many specifics about the last few months.

Rachel laced their fingers together. "That's our Kurt, God bless him," she said slyly, then giggled when he rolled his eyes heavenward and struck a prayerful pose.

"How do you solve a problem like Rachel Berry?" he inquired of the ceiling.

Santana guessed at the source of their banter: "_The Sound of Music_?"

"Good girl," said Rachel.

"Obi-Wan has taught you well." Kurt spoke to Santana, but nodded at Rachel.

"Oh God, you people are even bigger freaks than I remember." Santana pretended that she was about to get up and leave the table. Rachel held fast to her hand, tugging her back into the seat until they were thigh to thigh again.

"Face it, honey, you're one of us now," said Kurt.

Santana accepted her fate with a heavy sigh, all the while tracing her fingertip in random patterns over the soft skin at the inside of Rachel's arm. "So, where's Blaine? How did he manage not to get sucked into our loser vortex?"

At the mention of his partner, Kurt's whole countenance changed, his face aglow with happiness. "He had to work, but he'll be here for the show tomorrow night. He said come hell or high water there's no way he'd miss Rachel's Off-Broadway debut. Isn't that sweet?"

"So sweet," Rachel said, her effervescence matching his.

A small, affectionate smile played at the corners of Santana's mouth. For the past several days Rachel had been in a constant state of bliss, overwhelmed by excitement for opening night of the musical. It would have been annoying were it not so infectious. The only thing capable of tempering her mood was concern that the theater seats reserved for her guests might be empty. But both fathers were scheduled to arrive at LaGuardia first thing in the morning, and her biological mother, Shelby Corcoran, promised to attend. With Santana, Kurt, and now Blaine, rounding out the roster, she had her full house. Casting Rachel a furtive glance, Santana squeezed her lightly just above the knee, then feigned innocence when she noticed Kurt gazing back and forth between them like he was following the ball at a tennis match.

"What about you?" he asked, shrewd blue eyes narrowed at Santana. "Will you be bringing a lady friend?"

"Um. I..." Santana tried to think of a vague answer that neither confirmed nor denied there would be a special someone present for the event. She toyed with Rachel's fingers and looked everywhere else but right at her. "I... should probably get back to work a'fores they fire my ass," she said, knowing how clumsy it sounded even as it came out. Business had slowed for the evening, and the one customer seated in her section hadn't lowered his newspaper long enough to sip the refill she'd fetched him.

"Hold it right there." Kurt halted her with a prim lift of his index finger. "First of all, you've been living with Rachel too long, because your powers of deception have taken a drastic turn. And second—" He leaned as far forward as the table allowed, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a newshound on the scent of the next big scoop. All he lacked was a notepad and a pencil lead to wet against his tongue. "When did you two start sleeping together?" he said in a scandalized whisper. "And why wasn't I notified immediately?"

Peeking sideways for clues on how to proceed, Santana was relieved to see that, though Rachel tipped her head at a shy angle, she looked more amused than embarrassed. After a moment she placed their joined hands on the tabletop, her free hand curling around Santana's wrist, and asked, "What gave us away?"

"Besides the game of footsie and the sexual tension even I could cut with a knife? How about the fact that I haven't seen you sit so close to each other without fearing your imminent deaths in, like... ever?" He made an impatient gesture, urging the conversation along. "Dish."

"Well, it's kind of a long story..." Rachel said, directing the statement to Santana, rather than Kurt.

Santana could see her waiting on some input, equally uncertain about how much they planned to share. She studied the features across from her for a while—the sweet, heart-shaped lips, the distinctive nose, and those expressive brown eyes that gazed back intently, questioning.

"There's a lot more to her than I ever gave her credit for," she finally said in a soft tone anyone other than Rachel would have to strain to hear. "Turns out she's the best person I know. Just took me till now to realize it." She bent her elbow, bringing their hands up and dotting a kiss to the fingers entwined with hers. Tears threatened to spill onto Rachel's cheeks, and Kurt, wearing a sentimental expression, had covered his heart; Santana raised her voice a notch and added, "Oh, and she's a fireball in the sack."

"Spare me the gory details," Kurt said, but grinned along with Santana while Rachel blushed crimson from neck to hairline. He dug into his pants pocket, removed his cell phone and slid the touchscreen aside to reveal the keyboard underneath, his thumbs punching at it rapidly.

"What are you doing?" Rachel asked.

"I have to Tweet about this. Stat."

Spying the apprehension on Rachel's face, Santana reached to intercept the phone before Kurt sent the message. He grabbed for it with a noise of protest, sulking when his reflexes were too slow. "Come on, this is bigger than Brangelina," he implored as they huddled together to read what he had typed in his Twitter status bar—

_RED ALERT: Pezberry is on! ! ! More to co_

When Rachel held out her palm, Santana handed the phone over and watched her snap it shut. She understood Rachel not wanting their private lives trumpeted on the Internet for strangers or old foes to jeer at, but she felt a pang of disappointment anyway.

"I suppose his followers will want photographic evidence." Rachel pressed a button to activate the camera feature, then rotated the phone and positioned it at arm's-length. She turned to Santana expectantly, lips puckered.

"Probably so," Santana said, rolling her eyes in mock annoyance, but puckering up just as readily. She cupped Rachel under the chin and drew her near, their lips meeting for a delicate peck that lasted until the flashbulb sound effect indicated a photo had been captured. After Rachel attached the image to Kurt's status update, Santana took possession of the phone once more, amending the text and adding a hashtag—

_RED ALERT: Pezberry is on! ! ! More to cum. #fuckyeahlebanese_

She tapped the "Tweet" icon on the screen and passed the phone back to Kurt with a smug smile.

"Classy," he said, eyebrows raised as he scanned the words. Shaking his head, he returned the phone to the safety of his pocket and fixed a mildly reprimanding look on both of them. "This little revelation of yours is totally going to overshadow my big surprise, I'll have you know."

"And what big surprise is that?" Santana asked.

"I imagine at some point, while whispering sweet nothings in your ear, Rachel found the time to tell you Blaine and I are collaborating on a show of our own?"

"It came up once or twice between orgasms, yeah."

"Well, we've finished it." Kurt compressed his lips as if squeals of excitement were about to escape. When he had restrained himself enough to continue at a normal volume, he said, "And you'll never guess what it's about."

"What?" they said in unison, Santana a bit more impatient than Rachel.

"Us. And everybody else from our days at McKinley." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand at the last part. "But mostly just the glee clubbers. It's based on our lives as social pariahs in high school and it's going to be a musical extravaganza. We entitled it _Lima Losers_." Thumbs and forefingers extended, he flashed them in the air like he was visualizing the name on a marquee. "Both of you are main characters."

"How flattering," Santana said dryly.

"You know what I mean. Anyway, I should be the one complaining. Because of you two I'll be forced to make some major revisions."

Rachel furrowed her brow. "Why?"

"To add in the subtext."

Santana laughed as she hoisted herself out of the booth and stood beside the table. One of the other waitresses had begun to glare with disapproval from behind the counter, the synthetic hairs of her platinum blond wig becoming more awry each time her head swiveled in Santana's direction. "Okay, now I really should get back to work," she said. "Marilyn over there's about to challenge me to a rumble. I'll be off in a few and we can catch up some more then. I want to hear all about this me character. She better be badass."

"Don't think you're getting off that easily," Kurt said. "You've still got plenty of explaining to do, too. But in the meantime—" He set his sights on Rachel. "You are going to tell me everything. Starting with, when the hell did you switch teams? I'm your oldest and gayest friend, but I so did not see this coming."

Finding herself in the hot seat, Rachel made a blatant attempt to change the subject. "Oh, look," she said in a theatrical tone, pointing to the jukebox as if she were noticing it for the first time. "Kurt, did you know that if someone picks the song 'Love is Strange,' Santana has to sing the part of Sylvia?"

Within seconds, Kurt had a quarter in his hand. He flipped it nimbly and caught it midair. "You're not off the hook yet," he said to Rachel. As he strolled by Santana on his way to the jukebox, he bumped her with his hip and drawled, "Oh, Sylvia, get ready to call your lover boy."

Santana cut her eyes at Rachel, doing her best not to be charmed by the fluttering lashes and the pristine smile. It wasn't working, but she kept up the façade. "So mean," she said, then gave a flippant shrug as she turned to go. "Just for that, you're not getting laid tonight."

She grinned as Rachel called after her:

"You are."


	9. Epilogue: Everywhere

**A/N: **Okay, guys, I hate to say it, but yeah, this is the last chapter. Thank you so much for reading it and for the kind reviews. Hope you find the ending satisfactory. Let me know what you think! :)**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>Oh I...<em>  
><em>I want to be with you everywhere<em>

- Fleetwood Mac, "Everywhere" (Christine McVie)

* * *

><p><strong>EPILOGUE: Everywhere<strong>

The light bulbs around the mirror were softball-sized and bright enough to cause temporary blindness. They generated such heat in the confined dressing room that it rivaled any sauna. But Rachel didn't mind the warmth, at least now that runny makeup was of little concern. She did, however, remove her plum-colored cardigan—the one that symbolized the final act transformation of Sybil, whose torturous abuse during childhood left her with a fear of ordinary objects, including anything purple—and hung it on the stiff-backed wooden chair she sat in. Facing the mirror again, she couldn't help but smile at her reflection. Vanity had nothing to do with it. She looked plainer than usual with her hair clipped in a ponytail at the nape of her neck and her white oxford shirt buttoned tiptop. Nevertheless, she felt that, like the character whose costume she wore, her life had reached its newest chapter.

Maybe she was jumping the gun a bit. Tonight's performance had only been the first, and in the fickle world of show business, even the most stellar production could have its run cut short by poor sales or bad reviews. But her optimism about the show's success couldn't be dampened at the moment. Not after that reception by the audience at curtain call. The rest of the play was a blur in her mind. For all she knew, she had entered one of the fugues she acted out on the stage. Whatever happened, though, it must have been good. The applause during her bow had gone from enthusiastic to riotous, especially among the motley crew seated in the front row. Her parents—all three of them—looked ready to burst with pride. Kurt and Blaine clapped like madmen. But it was Santana's reaction that delighted Rachel most. By far the loveliest woman in the room, her onyx hair in a loose updo, her trim figure poured into the teensiest lavender dress imaginable, Santana created the biggest racket of all, pinkies thrust into either side of her mouth as she whistled like a rowdy fan at a sporting event.

Even if the show ended up as a flop, life had already taken a turn for the better: Santana was in it. Sometimes Rachel considered pinching herself to see if she were dreaming, to be sure that they were indeed together. But if it were a dream, she didn't want to wake from it. And despite being interrogated by Kurt, she still didn't have a definite answer for how it came to be. She just knew that, more than any other relationship she had been in, this one felt real. Santana understood her in a way that no one else she'd dated ever had. They could have actual conversations without Rachel finding it necessary to dumb herself down as she always had for Finn—in fact, matching wits with Santana proved daunting at times, but the challenge of it was fun. Unlike Jesse St. James, with his knack for artifice, Santana never kept one guessing at where they stood in her opinion. Her tender side often took Rachel's breath away. And not once did she make Rachel feel the need to choose between love and a career.

It wasn't perfect between them. They were both prone to emotional outbursts, and Santana's had been particularly intense during the withdrawal. She still had rough days. But after everything else they had gone through together, an occasional blow-up didn't much faze either of them.

"Plus, making up afterwards is my favorite part," Rachel said to the 8X10 glossy of Barbra Streisand that resided on the table in front of her. The picture of her idol was one of many good luck charms she'd brought from home. To its left, the gold star glass that Shelby had given her in high school twinkled with refracted light; to its right, a small plush toy of Lucky the Leprechaun slumped against the frame, the rainbow-shaped marshmallow Santana had glued to his palm poised just under Barbra's mouth, as if he offered a treat. Rachel knew the mascot was a dig at her height, as much as a reminder of the cereal she indulged, and sometimes bribed, Santana with at every opportunity. But she grinned whenever she looked at him. Like now.

She patted Lucky on his green top hat and resumed changing out of Sybil's wardrobe. When she reached the third button of her shirt, someone knocked at the door behind her. "Come in," she said, twisting around in the chair as she waited for whoever it was to enter.

Santana poked her head into the room first, her body easing in a second later, mindful of the bouquet cradled on her arm like a sleeping infant. She hung back for a moment, beaming, the posy-like embellishments on the bodice of her dress giving her a floral appearance of her own. "There's my leading lady," she purred in a teasingly seductive tone, urging the door closed with the heel of her lavender suede pump.

"You brought me flowers?" Rachel said, a hint of wonder in her voice. She got to her feet and rushed at Santana, kissing her soundly on the lips before she could answer. Then, stepping back, Rachel fawned over the elegant bouquet as it was placed in her arms. Its airy pink blossoms were shaped like tiny Victrola horns, the pistils tickling her chin as she inhaled their heady scent. She nestled her cheek lightly against them, hugging the long stems as she looked up at Santana and murmured, "So beautiful."

"They're amaryllises." Santana stroked one of the petals with her fingertip, then continued the caress along the outline of Rachel's jaw. "Otherwise known as belladonna lilies. And also?" She tapped Rachel on the very tip of the nose and quirked an eyebrow suggestively. "Naked ladies."

Rachel gave a small hum of approval. "I didn't realize you knew so much about flower terminology," she said, petting the velvet ribbon that held the arrangement together.

"I'm full of surprises. And my mom kept a garden."

Now that some of the animosity between Santana and her parents had dwindled down, she'd begun to mention them from time to time. There was a lot of healing left to do, but Rachel hoped one day to see the family restored. She still harbored guilt about the failed reunion at the hospital. More importantly, she did not want Santana to go through that same hurt all over again.

"Well, I love them," Rachel said, allowing her eyes to convey the rest as she caught Santana by the hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. They stood that way for a while, until Rachel could no longer contain her curiosity. "How was I?" she whispered, her shoulders scrunched as if she were preparing to be lashed.

"You were incredible," Santana said almost as softly.

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm. It was like watching Barbra Streisand and Sally Field's mentally unstable love child."

Rachel gasped and cupped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my God, that's the nicest compliment I have ever received."

Giggling, Santana gathered the bouquet back into her arms and laid it on the dresser nearby. "It's true. You acted and sang the hell out of that role. I knew you were good, but this was a whole other level." She took a step towards Rachel, clasping her by the waist, pulling her closer yet. "I discovered something else, too," she said, her hands wandering up and down the small of Rachel's back.

Suddenly the air sweltered, but it had nothing to do with blazing lights. Rachel swallowed the thickness in her throat, attempting to sound casual. "What's that?"

"Seeing you up on stage like that," Santana said, inching the oxford shirt from beneath the waistband of Rachel's pleated skirt a little at a time, "commanding everyone's attention... stealing the entire show..." She slid her hands under the shirt when it came loose, fingernails grazing bare skin. "Gets me really..." A kiss to the ear. "Really..." A nip. "Hot."

Rachel expelled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding in. "Santana," she said, gripping her by the hips. She struggled not to moan as the kiss just below her earlobe vibrated when Santana asked, "Hm?"

"They might be expecting me at the stage door..." Rachel spoke without much conviction, her head drifting to the side as several moist kisses traveled down her neck. She couldn't resist a small sigh when Santana blew on the damp spots.

"You're the star. Make 'em wait."

Rachel let her head loll backward this time, the smell of citrus wafting from Santana's hair as she laved her tongue over the notch where throat ended and sternum began. Since confessing that the area was an erogenous zone, Rachel had been subjected to ruthless assaults such as this on more than a few occasions. "There's no lock on the door," she said weakly.

"Then pin me against it."

The imagery and the husky tone it was conjured up with were too much to bear. Rachel did exactly as Santana suggested, guiding her in reverse until a firm collision of bodies rattled the door on its hinges. She paused with her lips just shy of Santana's, their open mouths hovering for a split-second. "Maybe just a quickie," she said, running her hand up smooth inner thigh, lingering near the hemline of skirt that covered only what was necessary.

Santana drew a shuddery breath as she nodded, too impatient to form words. Crushing their lips together, she pushed Rachel's hand the rest of the way up her skirt. She delved into Rachel's mouth, plying her tongue with eager nibbles and sucks.

Responding in kind, Rachel briefly teased the soaked-through crotch of Santana's thong, then tugged it aside and slid her middle finger into silky wet folds. Her own arousal surged at finding Santana so ready, and it became impossible not to squirm against the close-fitting Spanx she wore. It crossed her mind that the boy shorts—convenient onstage, freeing her from worries of flashing panty at the audience—might not be so practical now. But when Santana lifted the pleats that concealed them, her hand working into the constrictive material, Rachel's hips jerked at the pressure on her groin. She forgot about her own fingers as a thumb rubbed against her clit, but an urgent squeeze from Santana's thighs got her attention.

For a few minutes they tried to establish a rhythm that pleased them both. Soon, however, the slippery fumbling lost its appeal and turned frustrating. Someone was going to have to forfeit. Their kisses grew hungrier by the second, and as Santana rocked towards her, straining for more, Rachel made a decision. Gradually, she peeled herself away from their union, beginning with lips and moving further on. She stepped back, leaving Santana no choice but to retract her hand.

"What're you doing?" Santana asked, with an indignant little huff.

"You'll see. Stay put." Rachel hurried over to grab the chair by her makeup table and toted it back across the room.

Santana was leaning on the door, dress slightly rumpled, the skin around her mouth stained pink by lipstick and passion. The sight of her made Rachel a bit weak at the knees, and she fleetingly wondered who would benefit most from sitting. But she stuck to her plan, pushing the chair against the door when Santana took the cue to move aside.

"Come here," Rachel said, crooking her finger. When Santana obeyed, Rachel pulled her in for another deep kiss while nudging the tight skirt up, until it was bunched at the waist. She curved both hands along Santana's ass, reluctantly moving on as she slid the thong down to mid-thigh and let it drop past the knee. After directing Santana to sit, Rachel knelt in front of her and coaxed her legs apart.

"You don't have to," Santana said quietly, resting her palm against Rachel's cheek as she was about to lean forward.

In the two weeks since their relationship began to heat up, Santana had needed a lot of reassurance that Rachel was a willing participant. And at first, Rachel had been tentative—but mostly out of the persistent fear that she would be an inadequate lover. For months she watched Santana strive to turn her life around, giving up drugs, alcohol and the work that demoralized her into using the substances to get by. Rachel didn't fool herself into believing those problems would never resurface, but she had faith in Santana's strength and determination. She'd been at the opposing end of both enough times to vouch for their endurance.

"I know." Rachel dotted a kiss into the palm before urging it to grasp her ponytail. As fingers looped in the strands of her hair, she bent towards the thigh at her left. She trailed her tongue up the inside, then swiped it between Santana's legs. Beneath the fabric of the lavender dress, Santana's abdomen clenched. Smiling wickedly, Rachel repeated the motion until the sounds above her went from tiny gasps to soft, sighing moans. She flattened out her tongue, dragging it upwards in one long stroke that earned her a curse and a slight yank to the ponytail.

"Sorry," Santana said breathlessly.

"Hm-mmm," Rachel said, lips pressed to Santana's clit, two fingers parting the surrounding flesh.

"Oh, fu—... right there."

"Mm-hmm." Rachel sucked steadily at the tender bud, flicking her tongue against it in a way she had quickly learned brought Santana to climax almost every time. Within seconds, Santana's entire body tensed, her hips moving in subtle circles as she arched towards Rachel's mouth. When Rachel reached around to grab her ass, tugging her closer for more fervent licks, Santana gripped the side of the wooden chair until her knuckles were white. Her other hand holding Rachel's head firmly in place, she came with an intensity that—although she tried to muffle it—could undoubtedly be heard and recognized by anyone passing through the hall outside.

Rachel didn't stop. She got a tiny, devilish thrill at the thought of someone overhearing the wanton sounds for which she was responsible. But she slowed when Santana's full weight settled onto the chair again. And she ceased altogether as a limp hand rested on her ponytail, absently massaging the crook of her neck. The gesture reminded her of a contented feline kneading its paws, and she couldn't help grinning as she looked up.

"What?" Santana asked, chest still heaving.

"Nothing. You're just... adorable." Rachel wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand, then licked one last taste from her lips.

Santana bit her own bottom lip as she watched. "Okay, we seriously need to work on your dirty talk. But first..." She leaned down for a sensual kiss, plucking the front of Rachel's shirt open button by button.

It was extremely difficult to interrupt, but Rachel summoned every ounce of self-control she had and stayed Santana's hand when it groped at her breasts. "I really should get freshened up and make some sort of appearance out there," she said, giving Santana an apologetic peck before easing back to look her in the eye.

"But you didn't get a turn."

Rachel suppressed a giggle at the dismay in Santana's voice. "It'll give me something to look forward to later," she said, reaching up to wipe away the miniscule beads of sweat that had collected at Santana's hairline, then caressing her cheek fondly. "Besides, you are way too beautiful to go mussing yourself up." She swept a glance over the decidedly unchaste view before her and smirked. "Any more than you already are."

"Ugh, a tease _and _an ass-kisser," Santana said, but her eyes twinkled with delight at the compliment. She sighed dramatically. "All right, fine. Go get those Evita arms ready for your adoring public, Ms. LuPone. I'm sure there'll be plenty more dressing rooms for us to... christen from now on, anyway."

In spite of—or perhaps, because of—its casual delivery, the reference to their future together warmed Rachel from head to foot. "Promise?" she asked.

Santana drew an "X" on Rachel's chest with her fingertip. "Cross my heart."

xxx

"San-tan-a! San-tan-a!"

Three pairs of fists banged against the table, rattling the silverware and glasses of soda pop diluted by melting ice. People were beginning to stare. From behind the hand she was using to shield her face, Santana hissed, "If I do it, you'll shut up?"

The chant shifted to, "Yes, we will. Yes, we will," as the pounding continued.

"Give it to me, then," Santana said, reaching for the microphone that Kurt waggled at her from across the table. She rolled her eyes as he cheered along with Blaine and Rachel, the three of them trading high-fives with each other. Loath to release her dangerously high grip on Rachel's thigh, which she had achieved after toying with it off and on all through dinner, she gave a parting squeeze before standing up. Then, as she headed for the bright alcove that served as stage and contrast to the otherwise mellow lightning in the room, she discreetly flipped off the trio who taunted her with applause.

Aster was one of those trendy restaurants everyone buzzed about, but Santana seldom visited because of outrageous menu prices. However, tonight had been about celebrating Rachel's debut as Sybil, so when the other members of their group were keen to give Aster a try, Santana didn't object. Expense turned out not to be a problem because Marcus and Simon Berry insisted on paying for her meal, as well as their daughter's. And though Rachel hadn't found the right opportunity to tell her fathers or mother about the relationship just yet, Santana got a feeling from the close scrutiny she'd been under all evening that it wasn't much of a secret. They were kind to her and seemed approving, but it was a welcome distraction from the barrage of questions when, not long after their late dinner, an emcee announced the stage would be opening for karaoke.

To Santana, the introduction of karaoke in such a setting was like the oddball cousin showing up to cause a scene at the family reunion. She enjoyed every minute of it. The Berry dads' off-key and poorly choreographed duet of "Brass in Pocket" came first. Santana didn't know which amused her more: their complete lack of musical ability or Rachel's maniacal laughter through the entire number. Rewarded with facetious clapping and hooting, the men swaggered back to the table with such arrogance that Rachel and Shelby immediately cooked up a plan to outdo the hammy performance. Adopting deep Southern twangs, they sang a rendition of "Does He Love You"—Shelby as Reba McEntire, Rachel as Linda Davis—fraught with growling enunciation and catty glares. But neither the overacting, nor the awkward song choice for a mother and daughter, could disguise their talent. They got a real ovation. Awhile later The Fugees' cover of "Killing Me Softly," with Kurt singing in the style of Lauryn Hill while Blaine supplied beatbox, worked the crowd into a ripple of tapping toes and bobbing heads.

And now it was Santana's turn.

If only she had made a run for it when Rachel's dads and Shelby retired early to their hotels, exhausted from traveling. The butterflies in her belly surprised her. Any stage fright she ever possessed was driven out of her ages ago by Sue Sylvester bellowing criticism at her through that bullhorn; glee club put the fun back in performing, while requiring nerves of steel to endure the bullying that came with it; timidity was unacceptable for an exotic dancer; and work at Kenickie's Diner felt like a never-ending karaoke session itself. Still, it had been a long time since she was alone on a stage, with nothing other than her voice to entertain the audience. She almost wished she had accepted Rachel's offer to sing with her, but she wouldn't reconsider—bundle of energy or not, the starlet should be conserving her voice for the play instead of using it to bail out her girlfriend.

More than that, Santana wanted Rachel to sit back and listen to the words of the song she had in mind.

"Do you have 'No One'? By Alicia Keys?" Santana asked the DJ when she approached his booth, holding the microphone away as she leaned in secretively. After a moment of scanning selections on his laptop, he gave her a thumbs-up. Seconds later, the mike poised in her left hand, its stand gripped in her right, she waited under the miniature spotlights that framed the archway of the stage. As her eyes adjusted she sought out Rachel's face amid the sea of strangers. When she heard the familiar intro to her song, comprised of tinkling piano keys and thumping bass, she pointed at Rachel. Then she began:

"_I just want you close_  
><em>Where you can stay forever<em>  
><em>You can be sure<em>  
><em>That it will only get better<em>

Her shaky start evened out quickly and she patted her hip to the beat, relaxing enough to rock her body along with the music—not dancing, just small, rhythmic movements—as she continued to the next verse.

"_You and me together_  
><em>Through the days and nights<em>  
><em>I don't worry 'cause<em>  
><em>Everything's gonna be all right<em>"

Santana had listened to the song on repeat so often in recent weeks she didn't need to follow the lyrics on the monitor beside her. She kept her focus on Rachel and didn't flub a single line. When she finished, generous applause accompanied her return to the table, but the only reaction she cared about belonged to the tiny brunette who was clapping vigorously in between blotting a napkin to her damp cheeks. Sitting down beside Rachel again, Santana smoothed away the remaining tears with the pad of her thumb. "Hey, beautiful," she said gently, "don't muss yourself up, remember?"

Rachel pulled her into a tight hug that lasted until Kurt and Blaine chorused, "Awwww."

"Lesbians are so cute," Kurt said, resting his head against Blaine's as they grinned and went on cooing like Santana and Rachel were puppies in a pet store window.

"What is with everyone calling me cute and adorable tonight?" Santana asked, leaving her arm draped around Rachel's shoulders when they separated. She played with the feathery trim that lined the sleeve of the gauzy, vanilla-colored dress she had watched Rachel change into after their anything but vanilla encounter at the theatre. Under the table she uncrossed her legs and crossed them again the other way. "I'm about to go all Lima Heights on the next person who tries it. Seriously, I'll ends all y'alls if I have to."

"Even me?" Rachel infused her tone with a sugary sweetness that matched her doe eyes perfectly. It was a lethal combination.

_Dammit_, Santana thought. And out loud: "Everyone but you."

Kurt snapped his wrist and imitated the sound of a cracking whip.

"Totally," Blaine agreed.

"Shut up," said Santana.

"Good," Rachel said, ignoring the comments, "because we have some unfinished business to—" Her conclusion was indistinguishable through a wide, noisy yawn.

After tidying themselves up in the dressing room, Santana and Rachel had parted ways so they could get the full experience of meeting outside the stage door—and in case no one else showed. But Rachel need not have worried that her friends and family would be the only ones waiting. At least a dozen other people were lined up, eager to meet her and praise her exceptional performance. Santana's heart swelled with pride as she listened to them tell Rachel what a huge star she would become. And Rachel, in her height of glory, treated each stranger just as graciously. She even got to sign a few autographs. Since then, she had bordered on hyperactive, but it appeared to be wearing off all at once as she blinked drowsily and yawned again.

Santana crinkled her forehead in concern and glanced around for a clock. Spotting Blaine's watch, she reached over to grab the hand he was propping his chin up with, pulled it towards her to check the time, then let it drop to the table. "Shit, it's almost eleven. We should be home in bed," she said to Rachel. Then, before the wisenheimers across from her could speak up, she added, "Sleeping. You've got another busy day tomorrow."

"I am a little tired. But I—"

Santana turned to look at what had made Rachel stop and glance up. Her mood instantly darkened at the sight of the man standing next to her, his hand on the back of her chair. She didn't remember ever seeing him before, but his posture and the arrogant expression on his face were all too familiar. Out of sheer habit she eyed his charcoal pinstripe suit, noting the quality of fabric and its tailored fit. Expensive. Gucci, maybe. This was the kind of guy she would have let cozy up to her at Eden's Gate. An uneasy feeling stirred in her belly as she wondered if he had already done just that.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said without sounding the least bit apologetic. His gaze stayed fixed on Santana, as if there were no one else seated at the table with her. "I don't typically do this, but I heard you up there a moment ago..." He nodded towards the stage, where a tipsy blonde was butchering "Son of a Preacher Man" while molesting the microphone stand. "And I decided to come over."

His mop of sandy brown hair had probably taken hours to style into that carelessly tousled look. And those copper eyes were nothing short of penetrating. Somehow he managed to seem boyish and masculine at the same time. Pretending to be attracted to him wouldn't have required much effort. Angered by the thought, Santana glared at him like he had put it in her mind.

"Dex Maguire," he said, extending his hand, then simply returning it to the back of her chair when she didn't shake it. "You may have heard of me?"

"No. Haven't." Five small but powerful fingers locked around Santana's knee. She gave Rachel's shoulders a reassuring squeeze and continued to scowl at the man as he reacted like she'd said something humorous.

"Right. Well, I'm a record producer with Sony," he said, pausing to let the statement sink in, then moving ahead when she only blinked at him. "I gotta say I was impressed with what I just heard. Have you ever considered a career in the music industry?"

The guy deserved props for originality. Santana had been dealt a lot of lines over the years, but this was one of the better ones. She almost believed him. "Who hasn't?"

"Touché." Dex Maguire tipped his head, the corners of his smile angular rather than curved. "But most people don't have what it takes. You, on the other hand... you've got a unique sound. And—" He raked his eyes over Santana in a way that suggested he knew exactly what she looked like beneath the lavender dress, whether or not he had ever seen her dance. "The right look. You'd be extremely marketable. I'm sensing you've got the _cojones_ it takes to survive in the business, too."

Santana couldn't decide which was more annoying: hearing him talk about her as if she were a product he could sell, or the fact that her open hostility didn't faze him in the least. Both options made her want to punch him in his _cojones_. She had a clean shot, with his close stance. For the sake of her friends, she restrained herself. "Is there a point to this?" she asked.

"Yeah, I want to hear some more from you. If you're interested—"

"I'm not."

He examined her for a second, his sharp eyes narrowing. Finally, he seemed uncertain how to handle her. But it didn't last long. "Right. Well, I won't take up anymore of your time." Standing to his full height, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a silver fountain pen and a business card. Turning over the latter, he placed it on the table and scribbled on the back as he said, "But I'll leave my card, in case you change your mind. The number in front is my office, but this'll get you my cell." He slid the card over to her with his fingertip and tapped the row of digits. "Think about it."

Before departing, Dex Maguire aimed his pen at Santana and said to everyone else, "Talk some sense into her, will ya?"

Santana stared down at the phone number for several moments after he left, too ashamed to lift her head. Quietly, she slipped her arm from around Rachel and picked up the card with both hands, flipping it to the opposite side. Dougherty wrote his number on the back of a business card, too. And there had been others—some surreptitiously tucked into her G-string, some licked and pressed to her body so that the ink clung to her skin like a brand. Even though she hadn't used them, they had stripped away her pride a little at a time until she felt cheap. Only good for one thing. And now, she held proof of it in her hands yet again.

There was a collective gasp as she tore the card in half. When she glanced up with surprise, Rachel, Kurt and Blaine were gaping at her in horror. Kurt found his voice first. Sort of.

"Santana. That was... I can't... what... Dex Maguire!"

"Like that's even his real name," Santana said, snorting with contempt. "He probably stole it off the last corpse he had in his trunk."

Kurt scrambled to collect the pieces of card stock when she dropped them on the table. He fitted them together with the delicacy of a bomb squad technician—one false move and they would all be blown to smithereens—then slumped against Blaine in relief when the cell phone number was still decipherable. "Have you been living under a rock?" he demanded of Santana. "How can you not have heard of Dex Maguire? He is the golden boy of the recording industry. Practically everyone he signs becomes an overnight sensation. He basically offered you a record deal, and you... he... I—" He gazed helplessly at Blaine. "I have so many feelings."

Gathering the bits of paper back up, Santana studied the information on the front. It did look legit. She fretted her bottom lip and turned to Rachel. "Is that true?"

Rachel gave a slight, regretful nod. "Yeah, sweetie," she said lightly, "it is."

"Because the way he was acting... I thought..." Santana fiddled with the scraps of Dex Maguire's business card. She hung her head again, unable to explain any further with Kurt and Blaine there. But she didn't have to.

Gently, Rachel urged Santana's chin up, until their eyes met. "He's a pompous ass," she said, confirming that she, too, had noticed his behavior. "But he's a very successful pompous ass who wouldn't give out his personal number to just anybody. He means business." She cupped both of her hands around the one Santana held the card in. "So, here's what we'll do. He's over there schmoozing with a big group of people now, so it's not a good time to approach him. You don't want to go running back to him right off the bat, anyway. Let him think you spent the night reconsidering. We'll go home, get some rest, then first thing tomorrow morning you can give him a call. If Kurt's estimations are correct, you'll be a pop icon sometime around Wednesday."

Hearing the plan laid out with such confidence and rationality put Santana at ease. But it was Rachel's sweet, sincere face that made the bad memories that had been dredged up begin to melt away. Santana had the sudden desire to be alone with her—not to fulfill sexual needs, but just to have the person she cared about most all to herself. "Yeah. Let's do that," she said, taking one of Rachel's hands and knitting their fingers.

"Well, be sure to get an early start," said Kurt, whose thumbs moved at such a furious pace the keyboard of his phone was in danger of bursting into flame. "When Mercedes reads about this, she is going to hunt you down and kill you."

"Tell her I said bring it." Santana tossed her head haughtily as she snapped her fingers.

"Word," Rachel added.

"Oh, dear God." Kurt prodded Blaine with his elbow, hurrying him as they gathered their jackets and scarves. "Rachel is trying to speak ghetto. Let's get out while we still can."

"Don't hate on my girl," Santana said, getting to her feet and tugging Rachel along with her. "She might not look it, but she's straight up gangsta."

When all eyes focused expectantly on Rachel, she flashed a megawatt smile and curtsied, holding out the edge of her frilly skirt. After the laughter quieted down, she and Santana helped each other into their coats, then exited the restaurant, bidding Kurt and Blaine goodbye with hugs and promises to update them the minute Dex Maguire put Santana on the path to superstardom.

On the cab ride back to the apartment, Santana and Rachel talked animatedly for several blocks, debating who would have a more successful career and pointing to only the swankiest condos they passed, with vows to live there once they were filthy rich. They bickered over who got to decorate (_"You are not devoting an entire room to Barbra Streisand"), _what kind of food the cupboards would be stocked with (_"We have to eat other things besides Lucky Charms" _), and who had dibs on the biggest closet (_"Me"_). But they did agree on one thing: whichever building they chose, a fabulous rooftop was essential.

They drifted into a comfortable silence as they neared their actual neighborhood. Within seconds, Rachel's head began to droop a little at a time, until it landed on Santana's shoulder. At first she seemed to be asleep, but then she drew Santana's hand into her lap, palm facing up. With the tip of her index finger, she traced a brief straight line down the middle of the palm—"I" or "1". Next came the shape of a heart, easy to discern even in the dark cab. And finally, as Santana held her breath, a small, inverted arc. Releasing the breath slowly, she placed a kiss in the soft hair by her cheek. Then she turned Rachel's hand over, copied the message and pressed two extended fingers into her palm.

Rachel fell asleep with her arm encircling Santana's waist. And by the time they were parked outside their building, Santana knew for certain that whether it was here or the most expensive apartment in New York City, anywhere would feel like home with Rachel by her side.

xxx

THE END


End file.
